


the sky is as sad as you are

by Bellovebug



Series: the eyes outlast the tears [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Techno, Dadza, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Minor Injuries, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, TommyInnit Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Trauma, as a treat, depressedinnit, no beta we die like wilbur, phil and techno try their best, tommy can have a little hypothermia, tommy having various mental breakdowns, too many parentheses and italics rip, tubbo and wilbur are only mentioned but theyre coming i promise, weird minecraft rules
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 36,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28547445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellovebug/pseuds/Bellovebug
Summary: Tommy has never handled storms well.When he was a child, before Phil found him, he’d huddle between the houses in villages in an attempt to stay dry. It was better, of course, after Phil took him in. He wasn’t wet or hungry or sick anymore, but he’d always been embarrassed of the way the crack of lightning made his breath catch in his throat. Luckily, it never rained in L’manberg. It’s one of the reasons he’d loved it so much. It never rained, no matter who lived and who died, who won and who lost.And then, Tommy had been exiled, and for the first time in months, Tommy saw rain.He looks up into the vast expanse of the sky, raindrops dripping down his cheeks and into his ears, and thinks,you’re just as sad as I am, aren’t you?As pathetic as it is, he sees the sky as a friend of sorts, then.You see, he could scream his pain into the sky as loud as he wanted, and the sky would keep his secrets till the end of time.(or, tommy is not okay, physically or mentally.techno and phil try their best to help him heal.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: the eyes outlast the tears [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2077434
Comments: 123
Kudos: 671
Collections: MCYT Fic Rec





	1. i have shored against my ruins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (tw for suicidal thoughts, mild injuries, and tommy's generally struggling mental health)  
> (also, this will probably make more sense if you read the first fic in the series lmao so if you haven't, check that out first!!)
> 
> "it rains, and this is when you know  
> the sky is as sad as you are"  
> -R.H. Sin, _She's Strong, But She's Tired_

Tommy has never handled storms well.

When he was a child, before Phil found him, he’d huddle between the houses in villages in an attempt to stay dry. He always ended up soaked regardless, hair dripping with water and shaking violently from the cold, and the stale bread he’d stolen days prior would end up wet and nauseating, and he’d be forced to pilfer more as soon as he could. More often than not, he’d end up with a painful hacking cough for the following few days. Once, he’d taken refuge by the lava vat under the awning of a blacksmith’s house, and he remembers that being the most comfortable sleep he’d had in months. It’s a shame he was awoken with a boot to the stomach from a man twice his height and at least three times his weight. He’d fled as soon as he’d seen the mildly threatening metalworking tools the man held at his side. Storms were the closest he ever got to returning to one of the shelters that he’d been forced to stay at in the beginning. He never did return, but storms almost made him want to.

It was better, of course, after Phil took him in. He wasn’t wet or hungry or sick anymore, but he’d always been embarrassed of the way the crack of lightning made his breath catch in his throat. His room had been the attic, above Techno and Wilbur’s rooms, and each roll of thunder had him convinced that the roof would be torn off, and he’d be sucked into a tempest of wind and rain and electricity. One time, about a year after he’d arrived there, the four of them had been eating dinner, and a bolt of lightning had scared him so badly that he’d let out a shriek and toppled out of his chair. Wilbur had teased him mercilessly for it, asking him  _ are you scared, Tommy? Of a little thunder? It’s just a storm, you know. It’s just a storm.  _ Humiliated, angry tears had welled in his eyes, and they fell when Phil had whispered, quietly,  _ cut it out, Wil. He’s just a child.  _ Tommy had been eight years old, and he’d been pissed. He couldn’t believe they thought he couldn’t hear them. He couldn’t believe that Phil had called him a  _ child. _

(The secret was that he  _ was  _ one. He’d just never been given the chance to act like it until then.)

It never rained in L’manberg. No matter how hard he thought, he couldn’t remember a  _ single  _ time in which L’manberg had seen rain. It’s one of the reasons he’d loved it so much. Even if some days were cloudier than others, the sky always remained devoid of the dark, ashy gray of rain clouds. The sunset was colorful and breathtaking, every time, no matter what- no matter who was president, or which war was being fought. No matter who lived and who died, who won and who lost.

And then, Tommy had been exiled.

Tubbo had looked at him with eyes the color of the ocean, and with all the warmth of it, too. His eyes were so  _ cold. _ There was no hint of his best friend in his face, then. None of the warmth, or joy, or forgiveness that he’d come to know him for.  _ Goodbye, Tommy,  _ he’d said, and Tommy had wondered if he’d said it because he was leaving, or because that was the last of the real Tubbo that anybody would ever see again.

_ You’re exiled from everywhere that’s been touched,  _ Dream had told him.

Then, for the first time in months, Tommy saw rain.

It’d rained fast and hard. So hard that, for a moment, Tommy imagined that it wasn’t rain, but millions of tiny pebbles falling from the heavens.

He was cold, and helpless, and… and  _ scared _ . He would never admit it out loud, but he  _ was.  _ For the first time in a very long time, Tommy was left without a place to call home. Suddenly, he was seven years old again, hungry and cold, too small to kill a sheep for wool or a cow for food, and  _ definitely  _ too small to make himself any sort of substantial shelter.

Suddenly, he was a terrified child, and he was alone.

(He resolutely suppressed the way it made his heart yearn for Phil. For his  _ dad.  _ He pretended like he didn’t feel it, because as much as his needy heart told him that Phil was  _ safe,  _ his head knew he wasn’t. Not anymore.

Besides, he had Wil-  _ Ghost _ bur. He had Ghostbur, and that was enough for him.

Ghostbur didn’t tease him for the way he flinched at every flash of lightning. Tommy is confused by the way he almost wishes he would.)

It’s hard to stay healthy, in Logstedshire. Tommy finds himself sick half the time, and at a certain point he just gets used to it. The days might be hotter, with the sun bearing down on him mercilessly, but the nights are  _ so much  _ colder. He develops a sort of ever present cough, but he decides that he probably brought it upon himself. He’s the one who refuses to sleep in Ghostbur’s cottage, after all- he’d rather deal with having a runny nose than the guilt of sleeping in the house his dead brother crafted for him. Ghostbur doesn’t even  _ sleep.  _ After a while, he didn’t even visit. Eventually, it shifts from guilt to simple stubborn indignance. What, does he think Tommy can’t make anything on his own? Does he think Tommy needs everything done for him? Does Wilbur still think he’s  _ just a child,  _ even in death?

He’s not Wilbur’s baby brother anymore. He’s grown up. He’s fought in wars. He won independence for his country, and then lost his place in it.

He’s been through some  _ shit,  _ and he doesn’t need his older brother to coddle him anymore.

Then, it was only Dream, and Tommy changes his mind. He does need Wilbur. He needs him back, because without him he’s all alone, and he’s lost the last living remembrance of his past he had left.

But Wilbur doesn’t return. ( _ And neither does Ghostbur.) _

Not even to come to his party, which, really, was less of a party and more of a cry for help.  _ Help, because he really doesn’t think he can do this alone for much longer. _

Coincidentally, it rained that night, too.

He remembers thinking Dream was being very kind, then.

He remembers laughing in the rain, smiling for the first time that day, throwing the trident with wild abandon. He remembers not being afraid of hitting the ground too hard and stopping his heart.

(He remembers secretly wishing he could find the courage to let it happen.)

He remembers throwing the trident straight up, letting it carry him so high that the air began to thin and his chest began to hurt a little from the pressure. So high above the clouds that the rain turned into delicate white flakes. He rose till he was soaking wet and freezing cold, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care, because the higher he got, the less he could hear the rain thundering against the ground. The less he could hear the whipping wind and crashing waves of the ocean. The less he could hear  _ Dream.  _

He rose until he could hear nothing. The world was perfectly silent, perfectly still, and there, for a split second before he let himself fall, he could almost imagine he was floating. Such a perfectly dark, empty world.

For a moment, he was completely alone.

It’s how he imagined death must feel. Ghostbur said he saw nothing, after all. He can only hope that nothingness was as peaceful as it was there, so high above the world.

Then, he began to fall, and every emotion that boiled just below that artificial elation came flooding back to the surface.

He suddenly remembers all of the anger and disappointment that burned between his ribs. He remembers all of the loneliness and desolation that slowly turned each drop of his blood to ice.

(He remembers the creeping terror that whispered in his ear,

_ Are you now alone? _

_ Will you be forever? _

_ I don't know, _ he'd whispered back.

But, secretly, he had thought,

_ Yes. _ )

When it rains the next night as well, Tommy begins to think he must have some sort of Zeus-esque, controlling-the-weather-with-his-emotions bullshit power. 

( _ Not Zeus,  _ he thinks.  _ Poseidon. Theseus was the son of Poseidon.) _

Of course, he doesn’t actually. He just thinks it’s funny how it only seems to rain when bad shit happens to him. It was like the sky opened up when it sensed the feeling of misery, and the clouds were simply too empathetic to resist.

For a moment, he feels a hot flash of guilt when he realizes that nobody comforts the clouds when they cry. They cry for those below- they weep for their sadness and joy and anger and fear, and all they do is curse them.

He looks up into the vast expanse of the sky, raindrops dripping down his cheeks and into his ears, and thinks,  _ you’re just as sad as I am, aren’t you? _

And then Tommy realizes he’s talking to fucking  _ clouds,  _ as in nonsentient congregations of gas, and he tells himself to chill out before he becomes fully emo or something. 

(As pathetic as it is, he saw the sky as a companion, then; something to confide in.

A friend, of sorts.

You see, he could scream his pain into the sky as loud as he wanted, and the sky would keep his secrets till the end of time.)

★★★★★

There is no sky in the nether.

Well, there is, when you manage to tunnel far enough above the cavernous ceiling- but it’s more of an empty, blurry void than a  _ sky. _

Either way, he does not trust this sky with his secrets. He doubts it would even listen if he tried to share them.

He knows for a fact that this sky cannot cry. This sky was not empathetic, and it would not weep for him or anybody else; it didn’t care.

This sky watched with a sadistic grin as everything that Tommy cared about fell apart beneath it.

As he stands on the edge of his screaming ledge and pitches forward, he finds himself longing to see the tears of his sky again.

★★★★★

Tommy’s eyes flutter open at the sensation of water hitting his skin.

His head is lolled back, dangling, and he stares up into the inky black sky as rain begins to fall.

_ You again,  _ he thinks.  _ I’ve missed you. _

A sharp gust of wind brushes his hair- which has gotten long in his negligence, he should really get on that- off his forehead, and if he didn’t know better, he’d say that was the sky telling him it missed him, too.

He tilts his head to the side, and when he sees that he is far,  _ far  _ above the ground, he begins to panic.

But then he hears strong, steady wingbeats, and he realizes that of course there’s a  _ reason  _ he’s suddenly this high off the ground, and his skyrocketing heart rate begins to curb.

So Phil took him out of the nether. Phil’s flying, and he’s taking Tommy somewhere. He’s holding Tommy like a damsel, and for a moment, Tommy considers throwing himself out of Phil’s arms to plummet to his death, simply out of indignation.

It wouldn’t be quite like the lava, but, well. You get what you get.

He decides against it, as he knows from experience that Phil would fall with him before he ever let Tommy go, and even if he somehow managed to thrash his way out of his grip, Phil was incredibly agile with his wings. He’d catch Tommy midair before he even got close to the ground.

He doesn’t look at Phil. He refuses to.

“Where are we going?” He asks, and he feels Phil’s hold on him tighten instantly.

Tommy supposes that’s fair. He  _ was  _ just pondering escape.

“You’re awake,” says Phil, and Tommy feels blood rush to his cheeks in stubborn embarrassment at the memory of falling asleep on Phil in the nether. Like he was a little kid or something, a little too  _ tuckered out  _ to stay awake.

He doesn’t address it, instead asking again, “Where are we going?”

“I told you.” It unsettles Tommy, the way he can no longer read the emotions in Phil’s voice. He thinks he can hear anger, but there’s something else, too; something Tommy can’t identify. “I’m taking you home.”

“I’m exiled from L’manberg, though. You can’t take me there.”

Phil is quiet, for a moment, aside from the regulatory breaths he takes as he controls their flight. Tommy begins to shiver- it’s cold, and he’s wet, and he’s still missing a shoe. His ragged clothes certainly don’t do much to combat it.

“...I’m not taking you to L’manberg, Tommy.”

He sounds nervous, but determined.

“Where is home, then, if not L’manberg?”

The rain hitting his face slows and transforms into soft, white snow.

Phil doesn’t answer, and to be honest, Tommy doesn’t really need him to. He thinks he knows exactly where they’re going.

Techno always did like the cold.

Tommy hates the idea of seeing him, of  _ staying  _ with him. He does. Really, he does.

But he knows full well that he doesn’t have a say in the matter. That Phil will take him there regardless of what he thinks or feels. He doesn’t have any control here.

He never really does, to be honest.

He’s learned time and time again that some things aren’t worth fighting over, so he doesn’t.

Tommy doesn’t speak again, and neither does Phil.

★★★★★

You know, Techno was having a nice evening.

Earlier in the day, he and Carl had gone on quite a relaxing ride in the snow. Just to let Carl run, and to let Techno feel the wind in his hair. The voices had been a bit quiet, that day, and he’d been able to revel in the relative calm.

He’d made some stew and read halfway through one of the numerous books on his shelf. He’d sat by the fire, and thought,  _ this has been a good day. _

Then, he’d heard the strong beats of Phil’s wings as he landed.  _ Phil, Phil, Philza Minecraft, Dadza,  _ the voices chanted excitedly. He’d go out to greet him, maybe help him carry things in if he needed it.

Techno opened his front door, and decided that, no, you know what, nevermind. This was a bad day. This was a very, very bad day.

_ Hurt,  _ the voices begin.  _ Hurt. Help. Techno, Techno, Technoblade must protect, protect the hurt. _

Phil stood there, face barely lit by the moonlight and the faint light cast by the lanterns that hung from his roof.

He made quite the imposing figure, stood there straight with his wings splayed out against the night sky, snow falling in droves around them. Like an avenging angel or something. Despite what the voices say, though, he doesn’t seem injured; he seems perfectly fine.

Evidently, though, they weren’t talking about Phil.

If Techno had to guess, he’d say they were talking about the tall, blond teenager that lay unconscious in his arms.

The voices always had particularly loved Tommy.

He must be right, because suddenly, the voices go completely silent.

“Phil,” Techno exhales, breathless out of confusion and anger. (And if his heart beats harder when he sees how his shirt hangs off him like he’s lost everything but his bones, or the way his body hangs so limply, he blames it on the cold.)

Phil steps forward on steady feet, but Techno can see the way his wings tremble with anxiety. He can see the seeds of panic that sprout in Phil’s eyes.

“Techno, bring me all the magma cream you can find.”

He’s taken aback by the unforgiving tone of Phil’s voice, and it rubs him the wrong way. This is  _ his  _ house. He has a right to know what’s going on.

“Phil, what is he doing here?” He demands. They’ve stayed secluded for this long; they can’t afford for Tommy to blow it all. He’s too loose lipped. Can’t keep a secret for the life of him.

“And blankets, too.  _ Go,”  _ Phil urges, leaving no room for argument.

Techno isn’t really known for complacency, though, so. “What is he  _ doing _ at my  _ house?” _

“ _ Now _ , Technoblade.”

Phil stares at him, and Techno stares back. With the way he says it, there’s no doubt that it’s meant to be taken as an order, but Techno chafes at the idea of simply  _ doing what he’s told  _ with no explanation behind  _ why. _

There is nothing malicious or power hungry in Phil’s eyes, though. Techno knows he wouldn’t order him around like that if it wasn’t important.

If that wasn’t enough to convince him, the fear in Phil’s eyes definitely is.

Techno huffs, but he storms back into the house.

He hurries to his chest room- specifically the chest which holds most of his brewing ingredients- and begins to rummage around for magma cream. While he searches, he hears Phil puttering around gathering supplies. He hears the clinking of potion bottles and countless chests opening and closing, as well as frantic murmuring as Phil tries to decide which potions would be best- “Healing? No, no, regeneration…” Curiously, he also hears kitchen cupboards, and the sound of the tap in the sink. He wonders what that’s about.

He’s managed to find a few small jars of magma cream, and depending on what Phil plans to do with it, Techno decides that’s probably enough. He races upstairs to his room, magma cream clacking together in a small satchel attached to the waist of his pants, and snatches the two blankets off of his bed. Then, he takes the ones from Phil’s room, because they’re the only ones in the house beside the one on the back of the couch in the living room. 

As he gathers his things, he wonders why the voices are being so quiet. They never do this- they’re always there, quiet or loud, whispering chaos in his ear. He can’t think of a single thing that would make them go  _ silent  _ like this.

He shakes away the thoughts in order to focus on the task at hand. With his and Phil’s blankets and the living room blanket combined, he has five in total, and he thinks that should be enough, right?

He speeds back down stairs and goes to ask Phil if there’s anything else he needs him to do, but the sound of a soft snuffle distracts him before he can.

He turns to see Tommy lying on the couch, and he feels every particle of air leave his body at once.

_ There’s no way,  _ he thinks.  _ There’s no way this is my little brother. _

Whoever lies on Techno’s couch is alarmingly thin. He’s not quite emaciated, but his ribs are visible through the large tear in his shirt- which is all but torn to shreds, along with his pants and the neckerchief he wears that Techno always told him made him look like a dog. He’s absolutely filthy, with dirt scuffed over most of his body, most notably his hands and knees, but also his hair (and he might be upset about the dirt on his couch if he weren’t so concerned). His face is gaunter than he remembers, and even closed, there are deep purple bags carved beneath his eyes. His hair is longer, too, but what’s more alarming is that there’s  _ blood in it.  _ There’s blood on his pants, too, and he seems to have bruises that spiderweb across his cheekbone. 

His entire image seems to have lost its color. His hair, which has become more sandy, dirty blonde than the golden blond he remembers. His skin, which has taken on an almost sickly pallor, desaturated and grey. Even the red of his clothes has faded and torn.

The only piece of him that still holds color is his lips, and they’re not the color they should be. They’re tinged an unnerving sort of purplish blue. It’s strange, but the first comparison that comes to Techno’s mind is that they are the color of forget-me-nots, and Techno suddenly realizes why Phil wanted all those blankets. It’s only worsened by the violent, frantic shivering that envelopes his entire body.

_ This can’t be Tommy,  _ he thinks.

But he sleeps like Tommy does, or- or did. The soft snuffles that he emits. The restless shifting of his eyes beneath his eyelids. The twitching of his feet, like he can’t stop moving even in sleep.

Techno doesn’t  _ want  _ this to be Tommy. 

He brushes the rain soaked hair away from his face, and he hates the tiny scar he sees on his hairline. He hates it, because it’s the same scar he gave Tommy when he’d accidentally clipped him with one of his tusks while messing around when Tommy was eleven. He hates it because he’d always harboured guilt for hurting him, no matter how much Tommy had insisted that the scar was cool. He hates it because it means it has to be him.

Then, Tommy’s eyes open, and Techno can’t help but flinch at how  _ grey  _ they are.

Techno expects Tommy to throw a fit upon seeing him. He expects him to bolt upright, to shove him away, to yell and curse him to hell.

At the very least, he expects him to slap away Techno’s hand, which is still hovering, frozen in surprise, over his head.

He doesn’t expect Tommy to meet his eyes dully and sigh in resignation. He doesn’t expect for every drop of the fire that had once burned in Tommy’s eyes to be reduced to ashes. He doesn’t expect for him to roll onto his side, facing the back of the couch, and close his eyes, like he doesn’t find consciousness worth it anymore.

He doesn’t expect that reaction to make him so unsettled.

Tommy should never act like this.

He waits for Tommy’s familiar rage, and it doesn’t come.

(He hates the way he  _ misses  _ it.)

“Phil,” Techno calls, and Tommy doesn’t even shift. “Phil, he’s awake.”

“He’s  _ what?”  _ Phil calls back, mildly panicked, clearly elbow deep in some medical cabinet.

“He’s  _ awake!” _

_ “Shit,”  _ Phil mutters. “Okay. That’s good, that’s good. I’ll be right there.”

Phil appears around the corner leading to the kitchen, and he is carrying a numerous assortment of potions in his arms, like Techno expected. He thinks he can spot several regeneration potions and one strength potion, as well as a bundle of bandages, antiseptic, and a wet cloth laid over his shoulder. However, what Techno did not expect was for him to be carrying a platter of sliced bread, precariously balanced atop the stoppers of the potions.

“I could’ve helped you carry that,” Techno points out.

“I’m good, I got it,” Phil says, and nearly sends the bread directly onto the floor when one of the bottles almost falls while trying to set everything on the coffee table in front of the couch.

“Yeah, uh huh, really looks like you got it there, Phil.”

Phil sends him a look, and Techno has to suppress a snort in spite of himself.

“Also, you know we have steak in the kitchen, right? That would help him heal faster-”

Phil finally manages to settle all of his items safely on the table, taking a seat on the rug in front of Tommy, and sighs. “Yeah, but he needs the carbs from the bread. It’ll help him regulate his body heat.”

“If you want, I could go fill the bath with warm water?”

“No, that could burn him, or send his body into shock,” Phil says. He pauses, and then adds, “Thank you, though.”

Techno  _ hmms  _ passively.

“Could you start laying those over him, please?” Phil asks.

Techno goes for the first blanket in the pile, and then hesitates.

He digs his own blanket out of the pile and lays that one on Tommy first, because it’s got wool on the bottom. The rest can go on top for warmth, but that one he knows is soft, and he figures that one should go on the bottom, since that one will be touching Tommy’s skin.

Phil works on unstoppering his various potions as Techno lays each of the five blankets over Tommy’s trembling form, who Techno knows that as much he may seem like it, is not asleep. He knows because he’s not snuffling or twitching his feet, and his eyes are still beneath his eyelids.

Tommy reacts in exactly one way throughout the exchange, and it’s shoving his nose above the edge of the blanket when Techno lays one too high up. Techno casually lifts the edge of the blanket and rests it over Tommy’s nose again, just to fuck with him. Tommy’s nose scrunches in irritation, and Techno huffs softly.

He removes his nose once more, and Techno covers it up again.

When Tommy frees himself for the third time, Techno lays the final blanket so that the edge is almost high enough to cover his eyes.

He doesn’t like the jab of disappointment he’s given when Tommy doesn’t play back, that time.

It doesn’t last long, though, because Phil places a gentle hand on Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy doesn’t react. Techno sits on the arm of the couch by Tommy’s feet and watches.

“Tommy,” Phil says softly.

Tommy doesn’t move.

Phil repeats his name and doesn’t get much more of a reaction.

Phil looks at Techno as if to say,  _ what do I do?  _ and Techno shrugs back as if to say  _ how should I know? _

Phil gives Tommy’s shoulder a squeeze through the blanket. He licks his lips nervously.

“Tommy, I have some potions that’ll make you feel better. Do you think you can drink them for me?”

There’s a tense moment of silence, before Tommy finally takes a breath.

“I don’t want it,” he says, slurring his words just slightly, voice shaky from the shivers wracking his body and probably something else, too. The words are so quiet that Techno has to strain his ears to hear it.

Phil pauses for a moment, taken aback, and says, “They’ll help, Tommy.”

Tommy’s shoulders hunch, just a bit, and he curls a little more into himself. He burrows his face further into the blankets, and it makes it even harder to hear him when he eventually says, again, “I don’t want them.”

Techno is reminded, for a moment, of when they were both younger, and Tommy would stubbornly refuse potions when he was sick, simply because he didn’t like the taste, and Phil would end up having to essentially force feed them to him to help his recovery along.

The only difference was that Techno remembers a lot more fiery indignance and a lot less cold indifference.

Phil swallows thickly. He looks from Tommy to the potions a few times, seeming to debate with himself, before he sighs and sets the potion back among the others.

“Okay. That’s okay.” 

Phil looks at Tommy with sad,  _ sad  _ eyes, and Techno has to say that he agrees. As annoying as he finds Tommy, he’s- he’s his little brother. He’s Techno’s little brother, and this version of him… honestly…. It scares him, a little bit. He wants his firecracker of a gremlin child back. He doesn’t like it when he’s cold and quiet and still.

It doesn’t feel right.

“I’ve got food, too,” Phil suggests, a small, comforting smile habitually donning his face despite the fact that Tommy can’t see him. “What about that?”

“I’m not hungry,” Tommy murmurs, and Phil’s face falls. His expression becomes desperate, and the tips of his wings begin their subtle quaking. Techno considers, briefly, trying to convince Tommy himself, but if he’s honest, he thinks that would probably only serve to drive Tommy further against it.

“Please, Tommy,” Phil says, and Tommy says nothing. “You need to eat. You’re injured, and sick, and you can’t get better if you don’t eat anything-”

“I’m  _ fine,”  _ Tommy insists, and Techno sees Phil regard him with a sad kind of look that Techno has seen many times. It’s a look that he knows well.

It’s a look that says,  _ you’re not, but I don’t want to make your pain any worse by making you admit it. _

“Please,” Phil whispers. “I just want to make sure you’ll be okay.”

The words  _ “because Wilbur wasn’t”  _ remain unspoken, but Techno is sure that they heard them just as loud as he did.

Tommy lets his silence hang in the air for a moment, and Techno is sure that if Tommy had been himself, he would’ve found some sadistic pleasure in their bated breaths.

Tommy huffs, jerking his chin out from under the blankets, and mutters, “ _ Fine.  _ If I eat the stupid bread, will you leave me the fuck alone?”

In spite of Tommy’s harsh words (which chatter a little bit, with how violently he’s still shivering), Phil’s shoulders relax, and a relieved smile spreads across his face.

They’re not in the clear yet- not by a longshot- but it’s a step forward. It’s  _ progress. _

Techno even finds himself cracking a little grin.

“Sure,” Phil says, and his smile bleeds into his voice.

Phil helps Tommy sit up- though Tommy brushes his hands off more than once- and as soon as he’s securely upright, with the blankets pooled around his waist, he seems to fade again, staring blankly into the space ahead of him. He doesn’t react when Phil holds the bread platter out to him. Instead, Phil has to actively place a slice of bread into his shaking hand before Tommy seems to move on autopilot, raising the bread to his mouth and taking small, tentative bites. But they’re bites all the same, and they both watch attentively as Tommy eventually nibbles his way through one slice of bread, then two. His shivering calms, for the most part, about halfway through the second slice.

Upon being given the third slice of bread, Tommy simply holds it in his hand. A moment goes by, and when he doesn’t raise it to his mouth, Phil says, “Are you gonna eat that one, Tommy?”

Tommy jumps, slightly, like he’d forgotten they were there. “Oh. I- That’s enough, for me.”

The slices aren’t exactly  _ big,  _ so Techno struggles a little bit to believe that two of them would be enough for Tommy alone.

“Are you sure?” Asks Phil. “There’s- there’s plenty, so have as much as you want.”

“I’m full,” Tommy says simply. Though the shivering has mostly stopped, he’s hit with another bout of them. It abides soon after, but Techno glances at Phil doubtfully.

“Tommy-”

“Phil, if I have to eat any more bread, I  _ will  _ vomit on you. My stomach’s going fucking crazy.”

Tommy’s tone is slightly more lighthearted- not quite joking, but not really serious, either.

Phil’s quiet for a second, and then he lets out a slightly hysterical snicker. “Okay, okay. No more bread.”

Tommy’s shoulders seem to droop just slightly, relieved.

Phil picks up a jar of magma cream, then, and Tommy’s eyes lock onto it instantly. “What’s that for?”

“It helps combat hypothermia,” he says. “It’s imbued with warmth, which is already a good thing, but the magical properties of it mean that you can use it without risking burns or sending you into shock, like other direct methods of heat.”

Tommy stares at him blankly, as if to say,  _ okay, and? _

“You put it on your skin and it helps you warm up,” Techno pipes in.

Tommy doesn’t move.

Phil sighs, and says, “Just take your shirt off, Toms.”

Tommy scrunches his face once in confusion, before a flicker of realization spots in his eyes and does, with clumsy hands and stiff arms, and Techno realizes that he wasn’t confused about what the magma cream  _ did.  _ He was confused because, somehow, he didn’t realize that he needed it.

He doesn’t really think about that, though, because he’s too distracted with the state of Tommy’s torso.

It’s not quite as filthy as the rest of him, probably due to the vague barrier his shirt provides to the rest of the world, but it’s still mostly covered in a thin layer of dirt. Alongside that is a large, sprawling bruise that spreads up his left side like a horrific watercolor painting of blues and purples and reds. There are numerous bloody scrapes on the same side, most notably a large scab that spans most of his forearm and elbow. The ridges of his bones pushing at his skin don’t really make the picture any less distressing, and it leaves Techno wondering how much his brother has eaten for the past few weeks. It definitely wasn’t  _ enough,  _ that’s for sure.

What Techno’s eyes lock onto, though, are the long, perfectly straight cuts that mostly litter his ribs, aside from one or two on his stomach and one longer one on his back. To go with those are a number of thin, white scars, which clearly come from the same source as the cuts, having healed.

Techno knows what those are. He knows, because he’s been the one to give those kinds of wounds to many,  _ many  _ people.

They’re warning blows. The kind a sword wielder deals as a way to say,  _ look at what I can do when I’m not trying to kill you. Imagine what I could do to you if I was. _

A strange sort of anger flickers alight in Techno’s chest.

Who the hell had been threatening his brother into submission for so long that he had wounds in every stage of healing?

Really, Techno shouldn’t have gotten so used to the silence, because he nearly flinches when the voices return full force. He hasn’t done that since he was a kid.

_ Hurt!  _ They all seem to scream in tandem.  _ Injured! Protect. Techno must protect! Brother hurt! Kill. Kill. Blood. Make them pay. Blood for the blood god! _

Techno shoves them down for now, because he recognizes that those protective instincts won’t help them now. He doesn’t even know who  _ did  _ this to him yet, and as much as his fingers itch for the hilt of a blade and he suddenly feels far too light without his armor, he knows that they need to deal with Tommy’s physical wellbeing first.

That doesn’t stop his blood from absolutely boiling, though.

“What?” Tommy asks.

Neither of them have the heart to answer, especially at the revelation that Tommy apparently finds nothing wrong with this.

“Jesus, Toms,” Phil mutters, looking destroyed. “We gotta get those cleaned.”

Tommy doesn’t reply, only looking vaguely uncomfortable.

Techno meets Phil’s gaze, letting the bloodlust that rolls through his body in waves show in his face. Phil’s sad eyes flash with danger, a  _ threat _ , for just a moment, and he gives a miniscule nod as if to say  _ later.  _

Techno nods back.

“But- but first, we gotta get this on you,” Phil says unsteadily, beginning to unscrew one of the jars of magma cream.

He reaches to scoop some of it into his hand, before Tommy interrupts him. “I can do it myself,” he insists.

He goes for the jar in Phil’s hand, and then seems to decide against it, instead reaching for one of the ones still on the table. His hands are uncoordinated and they shake violently, making unscrewing the lid a far larger struggle than it would’ve been otherwise. He can’t seem to attain a strong enough grip to easily loosen the lid, and he ends up fumbling the jar entirely and dropping it harmlessly onto the rug beneath him.

Phil looks at him pointedly, but not unkindly, and places it back on the table.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you,” Phil says, and Tommy’s cheeks flush red. Techno can’t tell if that’s the blood suddenly returning to his face as he warms up, or if he’s embarrassed.

“I’m not a child,” Tommy mutters, and Techno bites back a smile as the hint of the Tommy he knows peeks through.

_ So young,  _ the voices say.  _ So young! Smaller than Technoblade. Too small. Too fragile. Protect. _

“I know you’re not,” Phil responds, at the same time Techno says, “Yes, you are.”

Tommy shoots him the most annoyed, sharp look that he possibly can, and it’s the most vibrant thing he’s seen Tommy do since arriving here. He considers that a win.

“....I know you’re not a child,” Phil repeats slowly. “And I’m not trying to treat you like one. It's just that hypothermia is a bitch, and it’s normal for you to be so shaky. It’s easier for me to do it. Besides- you always put it on the chest, stomach, and throat first. You never put it on your arms or legs first, because that can send cold blood to your heart, which can be fatal. So, considering you’d have to put your hands in it in order to apply it anywhere else, I think you should let me do it.”

Tommy glares down into his legs, refusing to look at either of them. 

“....Fine,” Tommy relents. “Whatever.”

Tommy lies down, in line with Phil’s instructions, who directs him to position his body in a way that’s supposed to increase blood flow or something.  _ Palms up,  _ he keeps saying, despite Tommy’s wrists inevitably lolling back inwards. He takes a generous scoop of magma cream and begins to work on spreading it evenly over Tommy’s chest and stomach. Luckily, after a few minutes, Tommy’s shivering disappears entirely, leaving him looking a bit boneless as his body finally relaxes.

Techno shifts uncomfortably. He’s getting restless, just _o_ _ bserving.  _ He wishes there was something for him to do, something to keep his hands and mind busy, an excuse to do something other than  _ watch,  _ uselessly, as his father tries in vain to mend his brother’s broken mind and body.

Technoblade is used to doing everything himself. It’s a strange sort of pain, to know that there is nothing he can do to help in that moment.

“You have no idea how disgusting this sensation is,” Tommy whines when Phil begins to rub the magma cream into the base of his neck.

“Yeah, well, you were about an inch away from hypothermia setting in, like, ten minutes ago. I would call this worth it, I dunno," Phil shoots back, sarcastic- though Techno can see the genuine concern that hides underneath his joking tone.

Tommy grumbles something unintelligible, but doesn't complain again.

“Roll over, onto your stomach,” Phil says a few moments later, when he deems the front of Tommy sufficiently covered.

Tommy does as he says, and shivers once, shortly, as the air hits the skin of his back, which is still uncushioned by the magma cream. Phil glances briefly at Techno, who wordlessly rises from the arm of the couch to add some logs to the fireplace.

“You’re getting magma cream all over my perfectly good couch,” Techno mutters as he turns over some charred wood with the fire poker. It spits a few embers at him, and he doesn’t flinch when one lands on his wrist.

“Deal with it, bitch. I’m dying or whatever,” Tommy retorts, muffled by the cushions, and Techno can’t help the hysterical wheeze that escapes his throat at the brutality of his tone. Phil snorts, too, and chuckles quietly as he begins to rub the magma cream into Tommy’s spine.

“You’re not dying, Tommy,” Phil says, smiling. “Not anymore.”

Tommy’s quiet, for a second.

Then, he mumbles something, quiet and bitter, into the couch cushions. It sounds suspiciously like something along the lines of  _ “what a shame.” _

The smiles slide off of both of their faces like they’d never been there in the first place.

_ Oh no,  _ the voices cry.  _ Something’s wrong? Tommy. Why? Dream. Not okay. _

They don’t speak anymore. It’s a slightly more uncomfortable silence, but it’s not exactly tense, either; like none of them know if saying anything more will make things better or worse.

What tension there is eventually melts away, between the heat of the fire and the sound of the wind howling outside. Orange light emits from the fireplace, washing the woods of Techno’s living room in warm, soft golden hues. The voices go quiet, again, and Techno is left to enjoy the silence, which is only broken by the crackling of the fire and the breathing of his father and brother. Phil’s breaths are deep, and steady, and calm. Tommy’s breaths whistle, slightly, but the sound still reassures him, somehow.

The fire reflects off of Techno’s eyes as he stares into it, and he knows that the serenity he’s feeling is false.

He cautions himself not to believe it.

At some point, he hears Phil screw the lid onto perhaps his third of the small jars of magma cream. Techno thinks he must be done, because he’d just heard him open that one a few minutes prior.

“I’m gonna go wash my hands,” he says, and Techno hears the rustling of fabric as he stands. “I’ll be right back.”

“Alright,” Techno responds without looking. He hears a very muffled, almost incoherent  _ ‘kay  _ come from Tommy.

Techno listens to his footsteps fade as he walks into the kitchen. He also hears the moment he realizes he still has his boots on, and his heavy footsteps fade to soft socked ones on the hardwood floors. He hears the tap turn on, and-

-from behind him, he hears a soft, quiet snuffle.

Techno freezes, listening intently. Phil putters around in the kitchen, doing god knows what, and maybe thirty seconds pass, but-

-another one. 

He turns around slowly, quietly, and pads towards the couch. He crouches down, and sure enough, Tommy’s knocked out. His face is smushed sideways against the cushion, laying on his stomach, and there’s a little string of drool that’s slowly escaping out the corner of his mouth, and his couch is certainly in jeopardy of Tommy’s saliva, but he looks so peaceful and careless that he can’t bring himself to care.

He snuffles again, nose wrinkling. One of his arms hangs off the side of the couch, brushing the floor, and one of his feet twitching underneath his mound of blankets, which are pulled down to his waist in order to apply the magma cream. Techno takes the edge of the stack of blankets and flips them up, so that they’re lightly rested at the nape of his neck.

He rests a  _ very  _ light hand in his hair, and begins to gently fiddle with the locks, blunt nails scraping the skin of his head. Tommy snuffles once more, but doesn’t react otherwise, so Techno decides it does no harm and continues.

Techno watches his eyes, which roll underneath his eyelids, light eyelashes fluttering just slightly. The glow of the fire reflects off his blonde hair, and for a moment, it looks as if it’s the same golden honey blonde it’s always been, rather than the pale imitation that it was when he first arrived. For a moment, with the blankets covering up all of his scars and his visible ribs and his bruises, and the flames coloring his desaturated hair with warmth, and sleep masking all the desolate ruins of his little brother with serenity, Techno can almost imagine that this is the Tommy he knew before everything fell apart.

He can almost imagine that they’re back at home, on their farm on the outskirts of their small village, before Dream’s kingdom was even a thought in anybody’s mind. He can almost imagine that it’s one of those nights, a few years after Tommy had arrived, where he’d beg and beg for Techno to tell him more stories about his various misadventures, eyes wide and shining with admiration. Wilbur would roll his eyes, having heard it all before, but he’d still gasp at all the shocking parts and cheer at all the fun parts. 

_ I wanna be just like you,  _ he’d always say, and Techno would shake his head.  _ No you don’t,  _ he’d think, but he wouldn’t say, because Tommy was nine years old, and that was far too young an age to ruin something so precious.

So he would oblige him, unable to resist his pleading, till the sky outside was black and inky, and Tommy’s eyes would begin to droop without realizing it. He’d slide lower and lower into Wilbur’s side, till Techno’s stories would fade to silence, and his feet would start kicking and he would start to make that ever familiar snuffling noise.

And when the time came for him to go to his bed, the same argument would ensue, every time.  _ Just wake him up, he’ll fall right back asleep,  _ Techno would say, and Wilbur always looked at him with the most dramatically devastated eyes he’d ever seen.  _ We can’t!  _ He’d say, and Techno would roll his eyes in exasperation.  _ Just look at him. _

He never did give an explanation. Just always expected Techno to understand.

Techno thinks he finally does, now, when Phil comes into the room with a bowl in hand.

“Hey, I’ve got some st-”

_ “Shh,”  _ Techno hisses quietly, and Phil’s jaw clicks shut. “He’s  _ asleep.” _

Phil stares at him, stunned.

Then, his eyes scrunch up and his mouth can’t help but follow with a small, bewildered smile. He presses his lips together tightly, and puts a closed fist to his lips in an attempt to keep from laughing.

“I  _ fucking knew it,”  _ Phil whispers. “He kept nodding off and jerking awake and I was like, dude, your foot’s already kicking. Just. Give it up and go to sleep.” Phil casts a small but fond smile to Tommy. “I think it was the magma cream. I was rubbing it into his shoulders, right, and they were  _ so tense,  _ just absolutely covered in knots, like he’d been trying to deadlift boulders or some shit. So I worked them out, obviously, and since he was so warm he was just out like a light. I’m honestly surprised he lasted that long.”

Phil hesitates, smile slipping marginally.

“Or maybe it was just ‘cause he’s sick. That would make more sense, probably, considering exhaustion is a symptom of hypothermia.”

“Yeah. Either way, he’s out cold, which is a good thing,” Techno responds.

Phil sighs. “It does mean we’ll have to treat his wounds tomorrow, though, and just hope he doesn’t get an infection.”

The dark smoke of curiosity which he’d suppressed in face of the urgency of the situation comes rising to the surface again, now that things have settled down a bit, and Techno can’t deny the desire to question Phil any longer.

But not there, where Tommy is sleeping, and could wake up and hear them. Besides- the voices won’t stop hissing  _ quiet  _ into his ears, and he’s not in the mood to fight with them.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he says.

They head into the kitchen, where Phil wordlessly holds out the bowl in his hands, which contains little slices of steak. Techno hasn’t eaten in a while, but honestly, he’s not really looking forward to this conversation, and the nerves serve to unsettle his stomach, so he shakes his head.

Techno hops up to sit on the kitchen counter beneath the small window, and Phil leans a hip against the table. He takes a bite of one of the pieces of steak, and the silence that settles then  _ is  _ tense.

He knows that Phil feels it, too, because he suddenly begins to ramble  _ with his mouth full  _ just to break it.

“Y’know, the cow that this steak used to be was really a wild one. He was super quick, even in the snow, and he kept winding back and forth and stuff so it was harder for me to catch him, and he even, like, fell into the pond, you know the one over past the village? Yeah. I chased him that far. I felt kinda bad, because I’d got him on the leg, so he was limping and it was just- it wasn’t good, uh, and I really wished he could’ve had a quick and painless-”

_ “Phil,”  _ Techno cuts him off. Phil looks at him like a deer in the face of a drawn arrow, and Techno sighs. “What  _ happened?” _

“....To the cow?” Phil says, and chuckles nervously. “Well, you know, I’ve got this bowl here, and-”

“To  _ Tommy.” _

Phil’s silent for a second, body tense like a live wire, and then suddenly, he goes limp with a heavy sigh.

“I knew you were gonna ask,” he relents.

“Well, with the way you crashed this place like the fucking apocalypse was on your heels, I think maybe I have the right to have a few questions,” Techno replies.

Phil swallows, and says, “Yeah. I know.”

Then, he seems to deflate, leaning his weight against the table and burying his face in his hands.

“God, I should’ve  _ known  _ that being alone would weigh on him this much-”

“Of course he didn’t do well alone. It’s  _ Tommy, _ ” Techno reassures. “That’s why I thought it might help him realize that the formation of government was a bad decision.”

“ _ Right,”  _ Phil says, and he spits the word out like it burns his tongue. “But- but I didn’t realize it’d be  _ that bad-” _

“You can’t blame yourself, Philza,” he argues. “You visited him. You helped him set up his little beach party and everything, and he didn’t even  _ invite  _ you. I’m not surprised that I wasn’t invited, but  _ you?”  _ Techno shakes his head. “He made the decision not to let you in. He’s just as much to blame for his own solitude as everyone else.”

He holds Phil’s gaze with his own, and though they’ve had this conversation countless times before, he still feels like Phil doesn’t quite believe him.

“I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was, it’s not on you, okay?” Phil looks at him doubtfully. “It’s  _ not.” _

Techno holds the silence for a few seconds, and then sighs. “So tell me what happened.”

“...I don’t…. I’m not sure if I should,” Phil says uncertainly.

“What do you mean?” Techno asks, taken aback.

Phil is silent for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is rough.

“I just… I just don’t know how much I should tell you,” he says, and he avoids Techno’s eyes.

“Everything?” He tries.

“I would- really, I want to, but… I think, maybe, there are some things he might not want you to know.” Phil rubs a hand across his forehead and braces both hands on the edge of the table behind him. His wings shift uncomfortably, and his eyebrows are furrowed down in indecision.

“I would like to think that I deserve to know what the hell happened to Tommy that would leave him half dead on my couch,” Techno insists, frustrated.

“You deserve to know, but he deserves the right to decide whether or not to tell you.”

Techno grits his teeth, and for the first time in a long time, he loses his composure enough that his tusks extend far enough for the sharp white tips to pop out between his lips.

He pushes himself to take a deep breath despite the way the voices demand answers, and forces his tusks to retract back into his lower jaw, though they refuse to return fully, leaving his cheeks just slightly puffed with the additional mass.

“Then what  _ can  _ you tell me?” He grits out.

Phil hesitates, looking at him with something in his face that looks a little bit like concern and a little bit like apprehension.

“Your tusks haven’t popped like that since-”

“Just  _ tell me,  _ Philza,” he snaps, and he regrets it immediately when he sees the way Philza’s expression closes off with frustration, like he’s just done with Techno’s shit for the moment. 

“He almost died in the nether. I saved him, flew him back here in the rain and snow. We had to land a few times to avoid getting electrocuted, because the storm was bad, so it took longer than it should have, and he got too cold. That’s it.” Phil looks him in the eyes, then, and they’re softer than his grim face. “If you wanna know more, you’ll have to ask Tommy.”

“I will,” Techno retorts, but his tone is gentler, less angry than the words make it seem.

Phil seems to relent at that, expression slipping from his face to resemble something more fretful and concerned.

“Be...Be nice about it, though,” he says. “I don't… Tech, I don’t know what he went through before I found him, but it was… it was  _ bad.” _

_ What happened? Who hurt brother?  _ Shout the voices.  _ Find them. Kill. Make them pay. Blood for the blood god. _

For once, Techno wholeheartedly agrees.

“I think Dream did something to him,” Phil adds. “He, uh… he begged me not to send him back to Dream, when I found him. He seemed really scared.”

_ Dream,  _ hiss the voices.  _ Dream. Kill Dream. Hunt him down and make him hurt, hurt, hurt- _

“Don’t worry,” he tells Phil. “I’ll be careful.” 

He resolutely ignores the voices.

Phil nods, and is then interrupted by a long yawn. Techno snorts. They don’t have a clock in the kitchen, but if he had to guess, he’s certain that it would be sometime in the very early morning.

“You should get some sleep,” Techno says.

Phil gives him a small, fond smile. “So should you.”

Techno huffs, amused. “Nah. I won’t be getting any sleep tonight.”

Used to his wack ass sleep schedule, Phil simply nods. “Alright. Suit yourself, then.” He goes to leave, then, but pauses in the doorway to ask, hesitantly, “As long as you’re down here, could you, uh… could you maybe…”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Techno affirms, knowing how much of a worrier his dad was.

Phil smiles, relieved. “Thank you, Techno.”

They bid each other goodnight, and Techno heads to lie down on the other sofa in his living room, which is perpendicular the one Tommy lies on. He watches him, watches the blankets rise and fall in tandem with his breathing, and revels in the relative peace.

It doesn’t last long, of course; he’s alone. And it is when he is alone that the voices scream the loudest.

He’s used to it, but that doesn’t really make it any more pleasant. Tonight, they mostly yell about Tommy; he doesn’t blame them, considering that’s mostly what’s on his mind, too. They want to know what happened, and who hurt him, and they want to tear them limb from limb. They want to tear their very skin from their bones and bathe in the blood. They want to burn everything they care about to the ground and breathe in the ashes.

(Honestly, Techno kind of does, too.)

Unfortunately, he’s not being told shit, so. He can’t.

He doesn’t know for sure if it was Dream, and he can’t go around taking lives without knowing for a  _ fact  _ that he did something.

He rolls onto his back and stares, exhausted, at the wooden ceiling. He wishes he could sleep, but on nights like this, he never manages it.

Eventually, though, the voices quiet down to mere whispers. They aren’t  _ silent,  _ but Techno didn’t expect them to be. They quiet down enough that, over the clamor, he can just hear Tommy’s sleep snuffling.

It’s oddly reassuring.

It’s not as odd, though, as the fact that a few minutes later, he falls asleep.

Strangely, he dreams of nothing.

★★★★★

When Tommy wakes up, the first thing he registers is that he is  _ far  _ too warm.

He feels like he’s being boiled alive, really. He’s sweating so heavily that he feels a bead of it slide down his temple and into his ear, which makes him wince stiffly. He can feel his pants sticking to the backs of his knees, and when he finally manages to wrench his swollen eyes open, he realizes he’s still buried underneath approximately three million blankets.

Okay. So maybe it’s just five. Whatever. It’s not relevant.

Regardless, he whines in discomfort and throws them off, pushing himself to a sitting position and rubbing his eyes.

That’s when he registers the second thing: he feels like  _ shit. _

His head is spinning from having sat up too fast, but aside from that, he’s congested and his throat hurts and every joint in his body aches with some strange sort of stiffness. Every inch of his skin hums, like a sleeping limb, but not  _ quite. _

Worst of all, his chest  _ aches  _ like something has been left to decay inside.

(Vaguely, he recognizes that other parts of his body hurt, too. Like his side, which pulses with dull pain with every breath he takes, or his elbow, which stings sharply every time he bends it too far, or the multitude of still healing cuts from Dream’s light whacks. He ignores those, because he’s used to them.)

The third thing he registers is that he feels disgusting, cleanliness wise. He’s covered in dirt, of course, but that’s nothing new- it’s only different, now, because though most of the magma cream has seeped harmlessly into his skin, some of it has combined with the dirt to make an absolutely abhorrent sort of congealed paste. It leaves him feeling both crusty and slimy at the same time, and he  _ desperately  _ needs a shower. Or an ocean. Or a river. Whatever’s nearby. He wonders where the bathroom is, here, and if they have a bathtub. He figures if they did, he could probably be in and out of there before either of them woke up.

Looking out the window, he sees that the sky is still dark. Snow still plummets at an alarming rate, and he can hear the wind howl from inside. He wonders how long he was out for.

He stands, and then immediately sits back down when his head throws such a big fit that his vision goes black for a moment.

Rubbing his eyes and trying to keep himself together, he takes a few deep breaths. 

When he opens his eyes, ready to try again, he has to physically force himself not to make some embarrassing noise in surprise.

Techno is on the other couch, yawning, blinking at him with bleary eyes.

That bitch had always been a light sleeper.

Their eyes meet, like they had last night, and that same feeling of resignation floods over Tommy.

Techno’s dangerous. Always has been. There’s never been any use in denying that.

Of course, he never thought that that danger would apply to  _ him.  _ Not until the destruction of his country. Not until  _ you wanna be a hero, Tommy? Then die like one. _

Now, though, he knows it does. Techno looks unguarded, unarmed, and barren of armor, but Tommy is sure that he’s got something hidden up his sleeve. Something that could take Tommy down in a heartbeat if he were to try anything.

The thing is, Tommy doesn’t  _ care  _ anymore. He doesn’t care, because it doesn’t  _ matter.  _ Techno will do what he wants to do regardless of anything Tommy says or does, so there’s no point in fighting back. There’s no point in delaying the inevitable, whether that be kicking Tommy out of his house despite Phil’s wishes, or something worse.

Besides, what’s the worst he could do? Kill him?

(Tommy almost laughs. Almost. It sits in his throat, dark and wild, with sharp, unsanded edges that cut into his windpipe every time he swallows. It really is a good thing that Tommy’s used to the taste of blood.)

He hadn’t done anything last night. In fact, he vaguely recalls Techno  _ helping  _ him- he’d been as annoying as he always was, but no more. No yelling, or fire, or words sharper than precision blades.

He remembered Techno laying blanket after blanket over him and, eventually, a hand far too heavy set to be Phil’s sifting through his hair as he hovered on the edge of sleep.

But that doesn’t mean anything,

That doesn’t negate the possibility that he was simply biding his time. Lying in wait for the moment Phil stepped aside and Tommy was vulnerable.

He wonders if Techno will be excited or disappointed when he doesn’t fight back.

So Tommy stares, and waits.

Thunder rumbles over the wind.

Techno opens his mouth, and Tommy expects poison. He expects fire. He expects acid and vitriol and tar to come seeping out of his lips.

He expects to be  _ burned. _

“Tommy,” Techno says. 

Tommy waits for his skin to char.

“What are you doing awake?”

Tommy stares, and his skin remains unscathed.

It shocks him so much that when he opens his mouth to respond, he finds that nothing comes out. He gapes like a fish, and when Techno raises one eyebrow, he clicks his jaw shut, and opts to simply shrug instead.

“You should go back to sleep,” Techno says trepidatiously. “You need the rest.”

Tommy opens his mouth once more, and an almost inaudible squeak slips out. He doesn’t know why this turn of events has rendered him so inept. It just… he didn’t expect this.

He’d expected the worst, and now that he’s gotten something else- something bizarre and strange and simultaneously unrecognizable and unbearably familiar to him- he just doesn’t know how to react.

“‘M not tired,” He says.

“Maybe not,” agrees Techno. “But you probably shouldn’t be up and walking around yet. You were, uh… you were pretty fucked up.”

Tommy chafes at the implication, and stubbornly stands, just to prove a point. 

The world begins to tilt dangerously, and familiar black spots dance across his vision. He sways, dizzy, but miraculously manages to remain upright.

Or, maybe, it wasn’t miraculous at all, considering he comes back into his body to see Techno with his hands tightly gripping his shoulders, peering at him with a concerned expression.

“Jesus christ,” Techno mutters breathlessly. “Don’t  _ do  _ that.”

He hates it. He hates the look of concern when it’s directed at him. He hates pity, and he hates the way it always feels patronizing. Like he’s a little kid who needs his hand held through everything.

He’s not  _ helpless. _

He stiffly moves out from under Techno’s hands, and to his surprise, Techno relents immediately, jerking his hands away like  _ Tommy  _ had burned  _ him. _

This really is not how he’d imagined this going.

“Do you have a bathtub?” he blurts.

Techno squints, obviously bewildered. Tommy realizes, briefly, that he’s not wearing a shirt- but he’ll just take it off again when he bathes, so he lets it be.

“Uh, yeah? I do? Why do you wanna know?”

“Because I need to take a bath,” he says bluntly.

Techno stares,

“I promise, I won’t take too long. Ten minutes, tops. I won’t even use your heater- I can use cold water, I don’t care. I just need to wash this off-”

“It- it’s not that,” Techno stammers. “I don’t… I don’t give a shit about the heater, Tommy, it took Phil like two seconds to set it up. You know how he is with redstone. It’s just that Phil said the warm water could burn you, or send you into shock, I dunno. And I just- I don’t wanna be held accountable if you take a bath and pass out or something.”

“So turn around, then. Plausible deniability. I’ll just find it on my own, your house can’t be that big-”

“No, Tommy, hold on- hold  _ on, _ ” he repeats when Tommy moves to walk away. “I’ll show you where the bathtub is, I just… genuinely don’t think you should take a bath right now,” Techno explains.

“Why not?” Tommy pushes.

“Because I don’t want you to go into shock and drown, dumbass,” Techno insists.

Tommy happens to think that that wouldn’t be such a bad way to go, but he’s distracted by the way the sharp worry sparks something warm and vulnerable in his chest.

He hates the way his subconscious brain sometimes regresses back to his childhood, when any drop of kindness or care from Techno would send him over the moon with excitement.

He knows better, now, so he snuffs out the stupid flame as soon as it lights.

“Well, I’m gonna go take one whether you help me find it or not, so.”

Techno squints,  _ hmm _ ing quietly, pondering.

“I have an idea,” he says. “Stay here.”

Techno races off to some other room, and Tommy seriously considers wandering off just to spite him, but decides against it when he feels the way his knees shake just standing there.

Techno returns, holding a sponge, and leads him down a hallway to their right. He opens the middle door, and sure enough, there’s a bathtub.

Techno turns both of the knobs a few times, testing out the water temperature, before deeming it acceptable and leaving it to fill up.

“Cool,” Tommy says. “Thanks. Just let me know where the towels are, and I’m set-”

“You’re not taking a bath, Tommy," Techno says, and he says it like it's non negotiable. Like it's set in stone. Like Tommy can’t even  _ try  _ to argue.

And Tommy knows he can’t, but that doesn’t make it any less irritating.

"Then what are we doing here?"

Techno takes a deep breath and holds his hands out peacefully, placatingly, like he knows Tommy won't like what he's about to say.

“I remember reading something once," he begins slowly.

"Congrats! I know you've never been able to do that before-"

"-about how you can give a hypothermic baby a sponge bath as a safe way to bathe them, so I thought, if it's safe for a baby, it's probably safe for you-”

“I'm not a  _ baby-” _

“Well, it’s this or nothing at all," he says resolutely. “So what’s it gonna be?”

Tommy stares, jaw clenched, and then decides that it’s not worth it.

“Fine.”

He plops down on the floor beside the tub, snatches the sponge from where Techno had deposited it, and dunks it into the water. He pulls it out and goes straight for his arms, haphazardly scrubbing at it, before Techno snatches the sponge away.

“Woah, woah, woah,  _ stop,”  _ Techno blurts. Tommy stares. “You have to  _ wring it out  _ before you start. The point of a sponge bath is that it doesn’t get you very wet- you just wipe the dirt off. And you do it  _ gently.  _ You don’t scrub at your skin like it’s stained. Good  _ god.” _

_ You’re wrong,  _ he thinks.  _ My whole body is stained. You just can’t see it. _

Techno wrings the sponge out into the bath and hands it back to him, joining him in sitting on the floor across from him. Tommy’s upper lip curls in irritation, but he takes the sponge and goes back to that same arm. Despite what Techno had said, he still scrubs- he scrubs in a useless attempt to shed every bit of his skin that remains from hours before. He doesn’t want  _ any  _ of it.

Within seconds, though, he notices an issue. The joints of his fingers are stiff, and clumsy, and holding the sponge becomes increasingly more difficult as his grip begins to loosen against his will. He can’t hold it tight enough anymore to keep it in his hands and, eventually, it slides out from underneath his hand to land on the floor with a dissatisfying  _ splat. _

Techno stares at the sponge, and then at him.

“Do you want me to do it?” he asks.

“ _ No,”  _ he snaps, angrily picking the sponge back up. “I can do it, it’s fine.”

But alas, a mere matter of seconds later, the sponge drops again.

He takes it in hand again, and this time, he lasts a solid fifteen seconds before it falls.

Tommy huffs in frustration and humiliation. It’s- it’s the fucking  _ magma cream  _ all over again.

He hates feeling like this. Like he can’t do simple tasks that he  _ should  _ be able to do, but, apparently, he isn’t strong enough for.

Tommy sighs as Techno wordlessly picks up the sponge.

“I’m- I’m not  _ weak,”  _ he says, and the words are intended to sound angry. Instead, they just sound desperate. “I’m not  _ helpless.” _

“I never said you were,” Techno mumbles, and gestures for Tommy’s arm. He hesitates, but eventually relents, and Techno scoots closer to reach easier. Their knees almost bump into each other, but they don’t. Not quite.

Techno holds his wrist far gentler than he would’ve expected. 

He remembers a few times, at the very beginning after Phil took him in, when Techno had bathed him. Phil hadn’t trusted him not to accidentally drown if left alone- Tommy supposes he couldn’t blame him, at the time. He hadn’t known all that Tommy had been through. Didn’t know that, at seven, Tommy was used to bathing in lakes and rivers when he’d gotten filthy past the point of tolerance. (The shelters had baths, sometimes, but he  _ hated  _ the shelters. He’d rather deal with the cold than stay there.)

So he’d stayed with him, without fail, for almost a year, when Tommy had turned eight and told him to stop. Taught him how to wash his hair with shampoo, which Tommy’d never had access to before. But, occasionally, when Phil wasn’t able to, he’d put Techno on the job. He wasn’t as good as Phil at making sure none of the shampoo got in his eyes, but he tried, and his hands were always light and careful when he rinsed it out.

And now, Techo holds his arm in his large hands, and he’s exceedingly gentle when he wipes the sponge over his red, irritated skin. He’s far gentler than Tommy himself was, and, for some reason, Tommy feels tears just barely prick his eyes. He doesn’t know whether they’re sad, or happy, or frustrated, or nostalgic, or simply overwhelmed. He doesn’t know.

He lets Techno wash his arms, and he doesn’t wince when he very slowly, very carefully runs the sponge over the scab on his elbow.

As he goes, Techno painstakingly pats his arms dry with a fluffy hand towel after he deems that section clean enough.

He watches, entranced, as the dirt gradually clears away to leave his pale skin underneath. He watches as the red tint on his hands is meticulously washed clean by Techno’s hands. He doesn’t think about it. He just listens to the anger of the wind and thunder outside.

After his arms come his shoulders. He turns around, and Techno runs the sponge over skin in long, smooth strokes. Tommy notices that he always pauses before he runs over a cut. He wants to tell him he doesn’t have to; he barely notices them anymore. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t know why.

He does the same thing when he goes over the bruises on Tommy’s ribs from being thrown by the TNT. Unlike the cuts, those are fresh, and he barely manages to suppress a grunt of pain when he towels it dry. Techno reassures him when he does, saying things like  _ “it’s fine, it’s almost over, don’t worry. You’re good. There you go.” _

“Close your eyes,” Techno says when he reaches his face. Tommy does, and Techno dabs the sponge gently over the spot in which he’d sliced himself on a rock after being thrown. Techno lightly pushes his chin to the side, tilting his face, and swipes the sponge from his nose out towards his temples. It’s oddly soothing, and Tommy finds himself relaxing into the touch.

After finishing his face and deciding that his legs are an issue he can deal with when he can bathe alone, Techno grabs the shampoo to start on his hair. Tommy holds his head over the tub, but before he can get any water in it, he hears a soft chime come from the pocket of Techno’s pants.

Techno seems to ignore it, carrying on by grabbing the conditioner, but an unbearable curiosity strikes Tommy.

“What’s that?” he asks, and his voice is barely above a whisper, simply because anything more in the near silent bathroom would feel like blasphemy.

“Oh, probably nothing,” Techno says dismissively, waving a hand. “They’re probably just messing around. Important things never happen on there.”

“...Can I see what they said?” He questions cautiously. “I just- uh- I… I must have dropped my comm at some point.”

What he  _ means  _ is that it had fallen in the lava during his struggle with Phil, but Techno doesn’t need to know that.

Techno shrugs. “Sure, why not?

He wipes his wet hands on the towel, and retrieves his comm. The wind picks up, becoming louder and more aggressive. Turning it on, he reads whatever message just came through, and his brows furrow down. He looks angry, lips pulled back slightly like a snarling dog. 

“What?” Tommy asks. “What is it?”

“It’s Dream,” Techno answers, and Tommy immediately feels like he’s been punched in the throat. “He’s, uh. Looking for you, apparently.”

He feels like he might faint, and the breath catches in his throat so hard that his breathing sounds like more of a wheeze.

“He- He’s  _ alive?” _

“Pshh,” Techno rolls his eyes. “Yeah, he’s alive. He’s Dream. Not even sure the guy  _ can  _ die at this point.”

He feels nauseous, all of a sudden.

He desperately snatches the comm out of Techno’s hand, who glares at him, and though his hand shakes so badly that the words are nearly illegible, he miraculously manages to read it.

_ <Dream> Has anybody seen Tommy recently?  _

He stares at the screen, and his vision begins to blur. His hands shake so hard that Techno snags it out of his hand just as he begins to drop it.

(Before he does, though he catches the next line: “ _ <Tubbo_> come see me”.) _

His heart feels like it’s mending and tearing apart, over and over again, and his mind's a mess of conflicting emotions. He’s overjoyed, but terrified. He’s devastated, but so,  _ so  _ relieved.

Techno stares at him, concerned.

“Wha-”

“Thank god,” Tommy blurts. “Thank  _ god.”  _

A stupid, giddy smile stretches his lips. He buries his face in his hands and leans forward, pressing his forehead to the cool floor.

“Thank god that wasn’t his last life,” he mutters again. “Oh my  _ god.” _

Techno looks at him like he’s crazy. Tommy doesn’t blame him- he  _ feels  _ crazy, if he’s being honest. He’s swinging between misery and bliss and he can’t tell which one he  _ should  _ be feeling.

“... _ What  _ wasn’t his last life?” Techno asks, and he speaks like he’s walking on broken glass. Like Tommy is a cornered animal, injured and feral.

He opts not to respond. The silence echoes.

“Tommy, did you watch Dream die?”

And oh, no,  _ that’s  _ funny. That’s hilarious.

He lets out a snort, and claps a hand over his mouth, because he knows it shouldn’t be funny. But it  _ is.  _ It’s so fucking funny, and Techno doesn’t even know.

“Techno, I didn’t just watch,” he breathes, sitting up. “I did it  _ myself.” _

And it’s  _ true.  _ He took one of Dream’s lives, and he knows it was one of his permanent ones, because if it wasn’t he would’ve vanished immediately.

Tommy  _ murdered  _ someone.

And oh, god, that hadn’t really set in until now.

He’s the one who took Dream’s life. He was  _ dead  _ because of him. Because he was foolish, and unreasonable, and a  _ coward. _

The laugh sticks in his throat, for just a moment, and it nearly chokes him.

Guilt rises in him, sharp and sour and acrid, and he feels it sear his ribs and his spine and the base of his skull. He thinks, maybe, some of it starts to melt, and he’ll soon be left with nothing but ashes and charred flesh.

He’s the one who fucked up. He’s the one who was keeping secrets.  _ He  _ was being dishonest.

_ He  _ was being a bad friend, and  _ Dream  _ is the one who ended up dead.

“....What do you mean, Tommy?”

Tommy looks his brother in his confused, apprehensive eyes, and everything comes tearing out of him like a wildfire.

“I killed him, Techno,” he spits, and tears well up in his eyes, hot and fast, despite the rapturous smile that splits his face. He laughs, feral and carefree, and he sees Techno flinch. “I fucking killed him!  _ I fucking killed him!  _ He was dead! I buried him! I felt his blood on my hands and I held him as he  _ fucking died!” _

Tommy laughs, and laughs, and laughs, so hard that his chest  _ aches,  _ like it’s begun to crack and flake away underneath his skin.

It isn’t funny. He knows it isn’t. But there’s too much,  _ too much _ filling him, so much that it seeps out between his nerve endings, out of his eyes, out of his shaking hands. It tears out of his throat, and he’s forced to either laugh or scream and Tommy chooses to laugh, because he’s had enough of screaming, and he doesn’t want to wake Phil.

He wheezes, crackling with the guilt and relief and  _ terror  _ of it all _ ,  _ and the laugh that pries his teeth apart is tired and unhinged and just a little bit deranged. 

“Aren’t you proud of me, Techno?” He asks sardonically, and he can see the moment the words hit his brother when he flinches violently, as if Tommy had slapped him. “Aren’t you  _ proud _ ?”

_ You wanna be a hero, Tommy? _

He almost regrets it, for just a moment.

_ Then die like one. _

But he doesn’t.

His unstable laughter fades, and he’s quiet for a moment. Thick, heavy tears roll down his cheeks, but he doesn’t sob. He doesn’t shake with it. He just lets them go, dripping off of his chin to land with a splat on the bathroom floor.

He chuckles, quietly, dark and rough and hollow. It scratches his throat up on the way out, and when he looks Techno in the eyes, he looks horrified at what Tommy has become.

_ Good,  _ Tommy thinks.  _ He should be. I am, too. _

“Following in your footsteps, huh?” He smiles, and it is both gentle and brutal. It is as soft as it is sharp. “Just like I always wanted.”

Lightning cracks outside, and Tommy can’t tell if it’s trying to comfort or mock him.

★★★★★

_ I wanna be just like you. _

The voice of Tommy’s nine year old self echoes in Techno’s ears.

_ I wanna be just like you. _

He stares into a cruel facsimile of that same child’s face as Tommy laughs and cries, shattering before Techno’s very eyes.

Techno’s heart beats, stinging, in his chest, and, for the first time in a while, he feels completely helpless.

He  _ doesn’t know how to fix this. _

His brother sits in shambles before him, and it  _ hurts.  _ He hates the look of surrender on Tommy’s face; the look of emptiness.

Somebody broke his little brother, and Techno would place his bets on Dream.

The voices are screaming at him, confused and twisted. They’re out for Dream’s blood, but at the same time, they’re suddenly uncertain they should be. Why would Tommy kill Dream? Was it an accident? A joke? Some mundane task gone horribly wrong?

Or is it something more sinister?

Was it self defense?

It must have been. It  _ must  _ have been.

“...Tommy,” he begins, and he hates the way Tommy doesn’t even twitch. “Why did you kill him?”

Tommy sucks in a breath.

“I was being stupid,” he says, and the way he says the words makes them sound fake. Rehearsed. Like Tommy is a ventriloquist’s puppet and somebody else’s voice comes out of his mouth. “Wasn’t thinking straight.”

Techno pauses, and thinks.

He has to handle this delicately. It’s suddenly clear, how fragile Tommy is right now, and Techno doesn’t want to be the one who makes his cracks crumble.

“You wouldn’t have taken one of his permanent lives if you didn’t have a good reason,” he says slowly, non confrontational. 

“No, I was being stupid,” Tommy spits. He’s got one arm crossed over his stomach, and he’s digging his nails tightly into his arm. Techno wants to make him stop, but he thinks that would probably make it worse. He’ll keep an eye on it. “I was being stupid, and I killed my best friend- he was just trying to  _ help _ me-”

“Phil told me you begged him not to send you back to Dream.”

He doesn’t think, he just says it.

His brain’s tying itself in knots trying to make sense of this whole situation. He never would’ve guessed that Tommy would have ever called Dream a  _ friend,  _ let alone his best one _. _ If Dream is Tommy’s best friend like he says, then why would he be so scared at the prospect of returning to him? If they’re really best friends, then where did those cuts come from? Or the bruises on his side? Or the scab on one arm, or the scorch marks on his other?

If they were really friends, what in the world made Tommy feel like he had to kill him?

“...Yeah,” Tommy confirms hesitantly.

“Why?”

Tommy pauses, mouth opening and closing, floundering.

“I don't know. I don't know. I should never have left,” Tommy rambles, and he speaks faster and faster, more frantic with every word. “Should never have attacked him, he was- he was trying to  _ help me. _ I shouldn't have hidden things from him-”

“...Okay, but he hurt you, didn’t he, Tommy?”

Tommy goes silent, staring at him with wide, nervous eyes.

“He did this, right?” Techno continues, gesturing towards the bruises.

Tommy swallows, and his eyes flick around the room anxiously.

Then he nods, once, succinct.

The voices immediately rise to a roar, and Techno has to swallow down his own nausea and rage at the confirmation of his theory.

“Then... it doesn’t sound like he was your friend, Toms.”

Tommy sags like a deflating balloon. His forehead scrunches in confusion, and he mutters a soft, distressed  _ no. _

He’s silent, then, before his eyebrows slowly shift to something less sad and more angry.

Suddenly, Tommy inhales, and it’s like he breathes  _ life _ .

“You’re right,” he says, and his voice is more stable than he’s heard it since he arrived. A spark of accomplishment runs through Techno at his brother’s realization. “He… he was never my friend. He was just there to  _ watch  _ me.”

Techno nods encouragingly. “God, what was I saying? He’s- he wasn’t trying to  _ help  _ me, he just… he just wanted to keep me under his thumb… he  _ watched  _ me.”

Tommy shakes his head and wipes both hands over his face.

“He’s the reason I was fucking  _ alone.” _

Techno doesn’t know the full story, but he can tell that Dream hurt Tommy. He hurt him  _ bad.  _ And he thinks he knows the answer to this question, but he wants to see if Tommy knows it, too.

“What would Dream have done, if Phil had wanted to send you back?”

Tommy fiddles with the cuffs of his pants.

“I dunno,” he mumbles, and then lets out a wry chuckle. “He might’ve killed me.”

Then, Tommy looks up, alarmed, and it’s like a switch has flipped.

_ “No,”  _ he gasps. “He was my  _ friend.  _ He- he wouldn’t want to-  _ hurt  _ me.”

“Tommy, it literally looks like he beat the shit out of you,” Techno retorts, and he didn’t  _ mean  _ to be that blunt. It just happened. “You’re gonna tell me that he’s your- your  _ friend,  _ when you’ve got  _ these-”  _ he points towards one of the many healing cuts. “-all over you? You’re gonna tell me he’s not the one who did that?”

Tommy stammers, grasping at straws. “He did, but- but they're nothing. They don’t matter. He’s- he didn’t mean them-"

“They’re  _ threats,  _ Tommy,” Techno snaps, and he can tell by the way Tommy shuts up and avoids his eyes that he’s right. He stares resolutely at the floor in front of him, blinking rapidly.

He sighs, and nods, and Techno thinks, maybe, he might’ve gotten through to him.

“You know what, Toms?”

Tommy looks at him, and he swears he can see wars waging behind his eyes. An internal storm.

“I  _ am  _ proud you killed him. Nobody was there to help you, so you protected yourself. That’s something  _ you _ should be proud of.”

Tommy’s eyes are wide and shining, and though Techno can see the lightning that strikes in them, he thinks he can see something else, too.

Something like hope.

“Thanks,” Tommy breathes, and it’s barely more than a whisper. There’s the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

But it’s more than he ever dared to hope for.

“Now, though, uh. You got me and Phil, so, like. We’d make sure he died for good before we ever let him find you.”

Tommy huffs, quietly, and mutters, “Good luck with that. He’s kind of a stubborn bastard.”

“Oh, Tommy,” Techno says. “We’re worse. We are  _ so much  _ worse.”

Tommy chuckles, and so does he.

“We’re gonna burn that man to the ground, just you wait.”

The voices in Techno’s head howl for blood.

Techno can’t help but agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey folks!!  
> i :'))) yall were so kind in the comments on the last one that i banged this out till three am for like a week straight idk idk. seriously tho thank you my serotonin levels have skyrocketed  
> anyways lmfao here it is!! i know, i spent 14k words on literally like. a matter of hours of in story time. but i dont care, i had a good time with it. I was gonna put it all in one go, but by the time i got to like 6k i realized it was gonna be a LOT longer than anticipated, so i decided i should probably split it up into like 2 or three chapters  
> i really hope yall like it, and i also hope that characterization was alright? i always worry that they'll sound TOO ooc, so let me know if my characterization was exceptionally bad lmao  
> ALSO i changed the series title to smth less boring lmfao  
> also college starts again for me tomorrow so i might not be able to write quite as much anymore but ill try my best!!  
> anyways though, yall are lovely. i cant- i cannot cope. i love every single person that read the other one. please, if you want to, leave a comment!! theyre whats getting me through this world rn  
> have a wonderful day folks :))
> 
> (chapter title from T.S. Eliot's "What The Thunder Said")


	2. when the thunder calls for me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (tw for mentions of suicide, panic attacks, dissociation, and tommys general trauma and horrible mental state)
> 
> "Next time, I'll be braver  
> I'll be my own savior when the thunder calls for me"  
> -Adele, "Turning Tables"

When Phil wakes up, he figures he must have fallen asleep directly in the snow. There was literally no other explanation for why he was so fucking cold right at that moment.

As he painstakingly pushes himself into his conscious body, valiantly attempting to orient himself in the land of the living once more, he notices the mattress under him- so he must not be in the snow, then. The mattress is soft, too, which means he must be in Techno’s house, considering his bed in L’manberg is a lot stiffer than this one was.

He thinks, probably, he left the window open for some godforsaken reason.

Then, with anguish, he finally manages to emerge into consciousness, and he realizes it’s because he has no fucking blankets.

 _Why_ he has no fucking blankets, he doesn’t process until at least thirty seconds of bleary eyed blinking and staring into the abyss of Techno’s ceiling.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, feeling only marginally more alive. _Right. I told Techno to gather all the blankets._

He remembers, then, having come into his room to sleep, and sleeping under his coat as a barrier between him and the cold, because damn him straight to hell if he was going to try to take any of the ones Tommy was using. He must have kicked it off in his sleep, though, as he found it strewn haphazardly on the floor when he composed himself enough to look.

Dragging himself into a vaguely upright position, he shrugs his jacket on, and begins his absolute tragedy of a journey to the kitchen to forage for goods.

(And maybe, _maybe_ he’ll make breakfast for Tommy and Techno too. If they’re lucky. He _guesses.)_

On his way into the kitchen, he pokes his head around the corner, just to check up on Tommy.

He doesn’t expect Techno to be sleeping on the other couch, but he is. He’s got two of the blankets, and he’s completely swaddled himself up in them, facing the back of the couch, neatly cocooned to the point that Phil can only see the tips of his ears and the pool of pink hair scattered in a mess on the pillow beneath his head. 

Tommy, on the other hand, has managed to make ruins of the tidy blanket stack they’d curated the night before. He’s kicked one off entirely, abandoned on the floor, and another one- which he recognizes as one of his own blankets- is draped across his legs, hanging off the edge of the couch. The only one that has managed to successfully keep hold of Tommy is Techno’s blanket, which is a bluish periwinkle color, the same color as their retirement clothing. It’s curious, he thinks, that Techno didn’t take back what Phil knows to be his favorite blanket. (He’s had it since he was about fourteen. He never says it, because he knows if he did that Techno would deny all attachment to the thing, but he secretly thinks it’s adorable that his eldest son still has a blankie.)

He figures it must simply be that it was on the bottom of the stack, and thus the hardest to get to.

Tommy’s arms and legs stick out from under it, splayed out in a catastrophe of long, gangly limbs, disastrous as he always was. His hair’s even more of a wreck than it was the night before, as it sticks up in more directions than Phil can count. He notices it’s gotten longer in its neglect, but it also looks… cleaner?

It’s strange. It’s still lost that golden hue that Phil can remember from when he was a child- having been replaced by a strange, dull blonde, the color of sand, only a bit grayer. But the dirt that had been locked into it has vanished, now. And when Phil’s eyes drift down to his smushed, sleeping face, he notices that the dirt and traces of blood that had been there the evening before have washed away as well.

He swears. Techno had better not have let him take a bath- he’ll lose his _mind._

He decides he’ll ask when he wakes.

Phil putters around in the kitchen, debating on what to have for breakfast. He settles on cooking some eggs, and toasting some bread to have with the honey from the bee farm.

He retrieves the eggs and a jar from the apiary, and goes about preparing the food. He places a pan on the stove to begin heating up to fry the eggs. He’s midway through slicing the bread when he hears quiet footsteps on the hardwood floor behind him.

He discovers after turning around that the footsteps come from Tommy, who stands in the doorway, looking lost. It strikes Phil briefly how unusual that is- Tommy’s never been a morning person, and he’s surprised more than anything that he’s up before Techno is. But here he is, looking tired but fully conscious; a far cry from the state he was in the night before.

“Hey,” Phil greets him, and Tommy’s eyes snap into focus at the sound of his voice.

He meets his eyes, and suddenly, all Phil can see is his face as he’d stood on that ledge. He’d looked lost in an entirely different way. He’d looked miles away. He’d looked _empty._

Phil’s heart jumps in a mockery of the way it had dropped when Tommy had begun to fall. He remembers the way it had absolutely _writhed_ as he’d raced, faster than he’d ever tried to go, because oh, god, he was falling so _fast,_ and he was getting so close to the lava, and Phil isn’t- what if he isn’t _fast enough,_ what if he can’t catch him, what if Tommy- _Tommy-_

He’d forced himself to beat his wings so hard that even now, a tendon twinges painfully every time he moves it the wrong way.

But he had to. He _had_ to, because if he didn’t reach him in time, then- then-

_Do it, Phil. Kill me._

It would’ve been the second son whose blood was on his hands.

He hurriedly shoves those thoughts aside. (His brain saves them, though. For later. For when Phil lies alone in his bed at night and he can’t fight them off.)

“He- hey, Tommy,” he says again, and prays he doesn’t sound as unsteady as he feels.

“Goodmorning,” Tommy utters, and his voice holds no conviction.

He’s got his shirt back on, and Phil winces at the state of it. They’ve really gotta get him some clean (and intact) clothes- he really hates the way his heart momentarily jumps every time he sees the bloodstains on his pants and his shirt. He still doesn’t know where it came from- he’d made sure Tommy didn’t have some gaping wound the night before, and he hadn’t found any that would produce that amount of blood. He holds out hope that it’s someone else’s, but, honestly, the chances of it being from an old wound of Tommy’s are higher than he’d like to admit.

“Did you sleep well?” Phil asks, because he’s on uneven footing here, and falling back on default small talk is the best he can do.

Tommy shrugs, avoiding his eyes. “I guess so.”

The words sound hollow, as if his mouth is just forming words out of habit rather than out of a will to be heard.

The tension in the room is palpable. It makes sense, considering there’s never really been any sort of standard decorum for the precise situation they were in, but that doesn’t make it chafe any less.

Phil lets the silence ruminate, not knowing what to say, until he hears Tommy shift as he begins to leave the room.

“Wait,” he blurts, because although he’s at a loss for what to do, he knows he doesn’t want Tommy to leave.

It’s more than concern, Phil thinks- if it was concern alone that urged him to keep Tommy close, then that would imply that had Tommy been in full health, he wouldn’t have protested his leaving.

But he knows full well that even if Tommy had been in perfect shape- which he was _very_ far from- he wouldn’t have wanted to let him go.

So what was it, then? What was it that caused the very thought of Tommy leaving to make his heart feel as if it was being stretched and twisted and mangled?

He has the sneaking suspicion that it has something to do with the fact that since Phil had found him at the age of seven, he rarely left their farm for more than a few hours at a time.

He has the sneaking suspicion that it’s the remnants of the shards of glass Tommy had left in his place when he and Wilbur had gone away.

He has the sneaking suspicion that it’s-

It’s-

God, fuck. He’ll just say it, because it’s _true._

He _missed_ Tommy. Missed his voice. Missed the wild vibrancy he exuded with every breath he took. Missed the way he _felt_ everything so strongly, and so fiercely, even when they were things he would rather not have felt.

He missed the way his eyebrows would scrunch up with every emotion he showed. Joy, anger, sadness- all of it. Even now, as he stares at Phil, waiting for him to explain, the quirk of his eyebrows is the exact same as they were the day Phil had caught him attempting to snatch scraps of their food.

But the rest of it…

Phil is still searching for.

Even when Tommy had refused potions and food the day before, he hadn’t held much conviction. He hadn’t seemed angry, really- only tired. So, so fucking _tired,_ and Phil _hates_ himself for thinking it, but it really seemed as if Tommy had pushed away any longing he’d once had to feel. 

The life that had imbued each movement he’d made had faded away as much as the color of him had. His steps were sluggish and dreary, and as much as he’d like to think it’s just the lingering hypothermia, he knows that isn’t true. He knows, because the color had been scraping away even before, when he’d helped Tommy prepare his party. 

Lastly, his words didn’t sound like Tommy’s. They were too subdued; he rolled over too easily. His voice was soft, and hushed. Dulled. It hadn’t held any of its familiar exuberance and fire since he’d stopped begging Phil to let him fucking _die._

But regardless of all of the ways Tommy had come to resemble less and less the son Phil used to know, he finds that some part of him is put at ease with Tommy where he could see him. Where he could make sure he was safe.

He realizes, then, that he has no excuse for holding Tommy back, and Tommy stares, waiting.

He thinks on his feet, snatching the regeneration potion from the countertop.

“I know you weren’t feeling up to it yesterday-” _I know you were doing all you could to claw yourself as close to the edge as you could-_ “-but I figured, maybe, you’d be okay to take this now?”

Tommy’s nose scrunches slightly in disgust, like a dog who’s discovered medication hidden in its food, and shakes his head.

“No, no, I’m okay. Thanks, though,” he says. His hair falls into his face, and he tucks it back with clumsy fingers.

“Tommy,” Phil says, and he can’t help the authoritative tone that seeps into his voice that says _listen to me._ It’s not his fault, really- he’d had to use it every single time Tommy needed a potion, because Tommy hated the taste, and at that point it’d become second nature.

This time, though, Tommy shrinks back slightly, as if the word itself had been a threat.

“....No, really. I don’t need it. I- I’m fine,” he mumbles, and Phil knows he isn’t. It doesn’t take a genius to crack that one, with the still numerous wounds that had littered his torso- not to mention, the tremor in his voice really doesn’t help his case.

“You _do_ need it, Tommy. You’re still recovering from near hypothermia, and aside from that, those cuts could get infected if you’re not careful-”

“Phil, c’mon, they don’t even hurt-”

“Tommy, you either drink the potion or let me treat them by hand.”

Tommy’s expression immediately drops from pleading, eyebrows quirked up in slight worry, to something more exhausted. Like he’s done with it all.

Phil doesn’t regret it. He’ll be damned if he lets Tommy go untreated and uncared for for much longer.

“Fine,” Tommy says, and the word falls out from between his lips like it’s as heavy as a boulder.

Phil breathes a short sigh of relief, and passes him the potion. Tommy stares at it trepidatiously, before he uncorks it and downs it in one go. He would probably make him slow down if he didn’t know that there’d be no going back if Tommy were to stop mid chug.

He fetches him a small glass of water, which Tommy accepts and downs gratefully in a vain attempt to wash the taste from his mouth.

The potion seems to take effect immediately, as Tommy’s posture shifts minutely to something less decrepit. The position of one of his legs straightens out, and he wonders how he hadn’t noticed the way Tommy had favored it when walking. He wonders what happened to it, for a moment, before he realizes that that’s the foot that was left without a shoe for however long, and thus probably suffered more from the general weather conditions. He wouldn’t be surprised if there were mild burns all along the bottom of that foot from walking along that obsidian path- which would’ve absorbed the heat from the lava below- with no barrier to protect his skin.

However, the last shred of hope that Tommy’s hollowness had merely been due to his low health slipped away when his eyes remained just as grey and his expression remained far too dull for somebody so bright.

“Thank you,” he says, and Tommy’s face seems to soften marginally at the tender smile Phil gives him.

He figures Tommy’ll probably want to flee after being forced to consume what he sees as such a _foul_ substance, and turns around to continue slicing the bread to give him leeway for an escape. Finishing quickly, he cracks one of the eggs into the pan, watching it bubble for a few seconds.

He reaches for a few spices he knows the three of them like, but before he can dash it into the pan, he hears Tommy speak up from behind him, surprisingly not having left yet.

“Hey, Phil?” He says. Phil hums a small _mmhmm?_ to show that he’s listening. 

A few long seconds go by, and then Tommy whispers, “...Dad.”

The word is quiet and uncertain, as if he doesn’t know how Phil will react. As if he’s nervous to say it.

It catches Phil’s attention, because Tommy sounds so _young_ when he says it. It’s easy to think of Tommy as older than he actually is, with the way he refuses to lean on anybody, and the number of things he’s been through that no child should ever even think of. It’s easy to mistake him for an adult when he hasn’t been able to be anything else for years.

But even so, he’s only sixteen. He’s still a kid to Phil, and it shows in the way his voice betrays the anxiety and fear and uncertainty in the way he says _dad._ It shows the way he yearns for safety and warmth and comfort, and every atom of Phil’s body begs to give it to him. He just doesn’t know _how._

So he turns around, deliberately unsudden, so as not to scare off Tommy, considering how timid he seems.

“Yeah?” He says, and even Tommy’s posture seems closed in and nervous.

“Can-” Tommy’s breath catches, and he coughs to clear it. “Could I… um…”

Tommy resolutely avoids his eyes, looking anywhere except for him. His hair is long enough that as his head is tilted forward, it falls over them, and he almost seems to hide behind it. His fingers twitch, fiddling, and he wonders what could possibly be making him so uneasy.

“Could…” Tommy takes a deep breath, and seems to steel himself. “Do you think, maybe, I could… have a hug?”

Out of all the things in the world that could’ve possibly come out of Tommy’s mouth, that was not at all what Phil expected. It takes him off guard, leaving him reeling from the whiplash of Tommy’s indifference to his sudden request for affection, and Tommy must misinterpret his gobsmacked silence because he immediately begins to take it back.

“It’s stupid, I know, I- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked, I-”

“Of _course,”_ Phil breathes, and against proper judgement, he crosses the kitchen in one swift movement. He envelopes Tommy in his arms, who jumps for a moment, surprised. “Of course you can have one, Tommy. You can have as many as you like.”

Tommy is stiff in Phil’s arms, but after a few seconds, he seems to go entirely boneless, melting into him. His arms find their way around his torso, and he hugs like Phil is a liferaft, and he’ll be swept away into starving maelstroms and frigid waters if he loses hold of Phil. Like he’ll become a shipwreck of himself if he doesn’t hold on with every inch of him.

Phil decides, right then and there, that Tommy has been stranded in a merciless ocean for far too long, and he refuses to leave Tommy alone anymore. He’ll be a liferaft for as long as Tommy needs him to be.

Tommy buries his face in Phil’s shoulder, and Phil thinks he can hear a quiet, muffled _thank you._

He just folds his wings around the two of them and holds Tommy tighter.

They stand in silence, Phil rocking them gently from side to side, and he figures that he won’t let go until Tommy does. He’ll let him have as much time as he needs.

In the end, he doesn’t know how much time passes. All he knows is that he’s content, holding Tommy in the silent kitchen, until Techno’s voice breaks it.

“Hey, uh- oh.” Tommy immediately relinquishes his hold on Phil, and thus, so does Phil. His wings retreat back to their position behind his back, and they both turn to stare at Techno, who stands in the doorway, looking unsure of what to do with himself.

“Sorry, am I… interrupting something? Are you guys having a moment? I can leave-”

“No, no, you’re fine, Techno,” Phil assures him, and he gives him a pointed look when Tommy sniffles and rubs a hand over his face. It’s a look that says _don’t you dare say anything about how red his eyes are._

Techno, though confused, gives him a small nod.

“....Okay,” He says, droll tone drawing the word out, voice rough and tired from sleep. “Well, I just came because I woke up and smelled something burning, and thought, hey, that’s not ideal-”

 _“Shit,”_ Phil hisses, whipping around and scrambling for a tool to urgently scrape at the now nearly blackened egg stuck to the pan.

“Appetizing,” Techno drawls from over his shoulder. Phil shoots him a halfhearted glare that’s entirely undermined by the way he fails to keep his lips from twitching upwards.

“Hey, you? Shut up.”

Techno snorts, and retrieves another egg as Phil scrapes the charred remains of the other one into the garbage. Phil snatches it out of his hand unceremoniously and cracks it into the pan to try again.

“Hey, Toms, how many eggs do you want? Two? Three? Eight?” Techno asks, and Phil can hear in his voice that it hasn’t been a good morning for him- how he slept, maybe, or the voices, or something else, Phil doesn’t know. He just sounds generally run down, and Phil makes a mental note to ask about it. The fact that his hair hasn’t even been brushed yet says a lot.

Still, though, Phil is somewhat surprised by the lack of stiffness in Techno’s voice. He figured he’d still be upset about him being there, considering him and Tommy weren’t exactly on good terms, and considering Phil’s lack of a warning.

But Techno throws out the question like nothing is wrong. Like he and Tommy hadn’t been at each other’s throats for months. Like Techno wasn’t a war criminal. Like they had never even left the farm which Phil finds himself longing for every other day at this point. _(The farm their family came together on. The same farm which Techno had left to become the world renowned dueler he was, and the same farm which Phil had left to follow him. The same farm he’d left Wilbur to care for Tommy on, not intending to leave them for so long. The same farm which Wilbur had left after two years of Phil being gone far more often than he’d been home, following Techno in his endeavors. The same farm Tommy had left, because as Wilbur had said; “you might’ve left him alone, but I won’t.”)_

Techno says it like Tommy wasn’t almost as colorless as Ghostbur was.

Techno says it, and Phil adds yet another thing to his list of things he missed.

He missed his sons acting like brothers instead of enemies.

And then, he feels foolish, because all of these thoughts have flashed through his brain in a matter of milliseconds, all because Techno asked Tommy how many _eggs_ he wanted for breakfast.

Phil begins to think he might be losing it.

Tommy looks up, eyes flicking back and forth between them, like he’d just noticed them there.

“Oh, uh. I don’t need any, I’m okay,” says Tommy.

Techno and Phil turn to look at him in sync, identical expressions of stubborn determination on their faces.

“Tommy,” Phil says simply.

“When was the last time you ate?” Techno steps in.

Tommy eyes the two of them warily, like a sheep in the face of two wolves. “Yesterday. I had bread.”

Techno sighs, his tired expression letting just a sliver of irritation shine through, and clarifies, “And before that?”

Tommy’s jaw stays firmly shut, and the silence says enough.

Phil’s dad alarms begin to ring, high pitched and angry, and he opens his mouth to demand that Tommy eat something that isn’t bread, but Tommy interrupts him.

“One’s enough. Thanks.” It’s obvious from the slight undertone of defeat that Tommy considers eating an egg the lesser of two evils, and that he only says it to get them to stop asking questions, but Phil decides that he’ll take what he can get.

Both he and Techno stall, surprised. They eventually relax, but he sees Techno eye Tommy suspiciously from the corner of his eye.

Phil and Techno continue working on breakfast, maneuvering around one another in an almost choreographed dance only formed by years and years of unending familiarity.

Tommy leans against the table, out of the way. He seems out of it, staring into the space before him in a way that assures Phil he isn’t really looking at anything. He’d done it the night before, too, and he seems to slip into that sort of spacey state of existence whenever he isn’t actively talking to somebody or doing something.

He seems alright now, though. He doesn’t look as empty as Phil had seen him look before. It’s not as cold, or as emotionless. It holds some modicum of security in it; like he’s content to be sitting there, staring at nothing. It reassures Phil that he won’t blow away in whatever storm is raging in his head, or vanish as soon he looks away from him.

He and Techno continue working on breakfast- luckily without any other egg incidents- and as Phil toasts the bread, Techno wordlessly retrieves a few apples and begins slicing them. He’d tried to take over the pan when Phil had started on the toast, but Techno had never been very good with cooking, and Phil didn’t really trust him not to burn something down- not that Phil could really judge considering he’d just turned an egg into a substance rivaling obsidian, but still.

Besides. Even though it wasn’t a sword, Techno always had been and always would be exceedingly good with blades, and that meant each slice of apple was perfectly symmetrical and even. They seem to mock Phil as he stares at them

After a moment’s consideration, Phil fills a kettle with water and leaves it to boil as Techno completes their plates with his stupid perfect apple slices.

Phil carries his and Tommy’s plates to the table, while Techno carries his own. Phil has to say Tommy’s name in order for him to notice that breakfast is ready, but once he does, he sits down, and begins to eat as soon as Techno takes a bite. 

It surprises Phil, honestly. He’d been expecting a bit of a fight, but Tommy doesn’t seem to hesitate. He doesn’t protest, or argue, or refuse to eat. He just does, and Phil finds some part of himself put at ease.

It’s true that he eats slowly, and he hopes Tommy knows that Phil notices the way he doesn’t eat much of his egg, but he eats without prompting. He eats all of his toast, and about half his apples, so Phil can’t bring himself to push for the other two thirds of the egg that Tommy has managed to mangle by repeatedly cutting it into smaller and smaller pieces and pushing around his plate.

Turning his attention to Techno, he suddenly remembers his strange demeanor. Even still, as he slouches in his chair, he seems to glare slightly at his plate, as if the labor of simply bringing his fork to his mouth is too much. His pink hair, which remains unbrushed despite the fact that Phil knows he takes meticulous care of it, is knotted and frizzy. It’s long, and straight, but due to the texture and thickness of it, he has to be careful to care for it right, especially because of the sheer length he’s worked so hard to get it to. It’s something Phil knows means a lot to him, like a bird preening its feathers, and the simple fact that he hadn’t taken the time to brush it yet goes to show how tired he must be.

Looking closer, he thinks he can see faint purple bags lining the undersides of his eyes, and every few seconds, he seems to flinch minutely at something unheard by the other occupants of the table. Phil figures the voices must be bad today.

“You sleep okay, Tech? You look tired.”

“That’s because I _am_ tired,” he replies. Phil gestures for him to continue, and he sighs. His tone is mostly joking, but Phil can hear the slight strain under his words. “I was havin’ a good sleep, right, till this idiot named _Tommy Innit_ tries to stand up and almost cracks his skull open on the coffee table-”

Tommy’s eyes flick up with indignation. “I did not-”

“Yes, you did. Please, Tommy, that's so embarrassing-”

“Phil,” Tommy implores, turning to him with his hands out in a _hear me out_ sort of gesture. He tucks his hair back as it falls into his face again. “Philza Minecraft. Does that sound like something I would do?”

“Yes,” Phil says without hesitation.

“Unbelievable.”

“ _Anyways,”_ Techno insists, and Phil has to take a second as he reels from the sudden return of Tommy’s familiar banter. “This absolute fool almost gets owned by gravity- which, honestly, I’m convinced was just to spite me-” Tommy nods affirmatively. “And then immediately starts asking where our _bath_ is.”

Phil looks trepidatiously from Techno to Tommy’s suspiciously clean face.

“You didn’t… you didn’t tell him where it _was,_ did you?” He asks slowly.

Techno stares.

“Well-”

 _“Techno!”_ Phil scolds, because he’s kind of freaking out here.

“No, no, hear me out!” Techno pleads, leaning forward. “I didn’t let him take a bath- and let me tell you, he was pretty psyched to go into shock-”

“That’s not funny,” Phil says, voice slightly shrill with distress.

“-But I forced him into taking a sponge bath instead, because I remember reading in that book you made me read that sponge baths were safe for babies with hypothermia! And Tommy here fits that bill perfectly.”

Tommy sputters. “Oh my god, you’re such a bitch-”

“ _So,”_ Techno interrupts, shooting a noncommittal glare towards Tommy, who rolls his eyes. Phil marvels at how _normal_ it is. Techno sobers up, though, adopting a more serious tone of voice. “So, I forced him to take a sponge bath, and then my com goes off, and-”

“Techno, wait,” Tommy pipes up, joking tone abruptly lost. He and Techno stare at each other, something like desperation in Tommy’s expression, and Phil watches as they seem to have an entire conversation through facial expression alone. Techno raises his eyebrows, and Tommy tilts his head, widening his eyes, worried. Techno sighs, pursing his lips, and looks at him doubtfully. Tommy glances timidly towards Phil, then back at Techno, and his shoulders go tense. Techno seems to come to a conclusion, then, but he gives a stoic look to Tommy, looking to Phil and back pointedly. Tommy goes still, for a second, before eventually sighing and slumping his shoulders. He nods, defeated, and Techno leans back in his chair, seemingly satisfied. This entire exchange lasted a total of about ten seconds, and Phil wonders how the hell they even followed that _with_ context.

“ _So,_ I’m tired because this loser right here couldn’t wait till the morning. He’s squeaky clean and I’m exhausted.”

Tommy seems to relax, relief smoothing out his edges just a bit, and he gives Techno a small, grateful smile. Techno rolls his eyes, but Phil can see the slight upwards tick of his lips.

See, the thing is, Phil knows damn well they’ve left something big out of the story. He’d be a fool not to notice that, with the way Techno had abandoned the comment about his communicator entirely. He’d check the com history himself if he could, but it erases the messages every few hours, and he knows whatever exchange had occurred is long gone by now.

Regardless, he knows they’re omitting things. And he’d really like to know what it is. But he also knows that, eventually, Techno will tell him if it’s truly important. Once, he would’ve undoubtedly expected the same from Tommy. But he knows that the Tommy he’d raised was different from this one- it was still _Tommy,_ but he can’t deny that Tommy places less trust in him now than he once did (not that it’s undeserved). He can’t predict how Tommy will behave.

But he trusts Techno not to leave him in the dark on something important. Not for long, anyways.

“...Alright,” he says eventually. “Well, I-”

He’s cut off by the sudden piercing whistle that emits from the tea kettle on the stove.

Strangely, this is what shatters their tentative calm.

Really, Phil is the fool for believing for a second that their ramshackle, fragile peace would remain unbroken for long.

★★★★★

Techno viscerally feels several things fall apart when the tea kettle whistles.

First- and most obviously- is the quiet, calm atmosphere that had been achieved against all odds.

Second is the primitive semblance of normalcy that Tommy had crafted for himself, which, really, had only been hanging on by a thread anyways.

Third is Techno’s last remaining shred of sanity, which violently fucking implodes.

On the outside, oh, it probably just looks like he’s spacing out. Just absentmindedly waiting for Phil to take the kettle off the heat.

But on the inside, every sliver of composure that he’d been desperately clinging to since he woke up that morning are ripped out of his hands. On the inside, Techno is repeatedly smashing his skull into a wall. On the inside, Techno is screaming, loud and unhinged.

See, really, it hadn’t been a great start to the day anyways. He’d woken up to the voices chattering endlessly into his ear about a various number of things, and no matter what he did, he could not get them to _shut up._ They seemed to want to talk just for the hell of it, and that was not something Techno could handle in his current situation.

What’s worse, though, is that they go absolutely ballistic anytime Tommy shows any sign of being unwell in any way. Which, like, not to be rude, but- that was kind of all the time. _I don’t want any eggs,_ Tommy had said, and immediately, the voices had launched into a roar, begging Techno to _protect, protect, still hurt! Still injured! Needs food!_

And it’s not like Techno hadn’t agreed. It’s just that he didn’t really enjoy being screamed at for extended periods of time. They’d chilled out after Tommy had relented to one egg, but they still didn’t really quit their harassment.

The unceasing sound of lunatics in his ear didn’t make for a great temperament, either, so Techno had found himself biting back several rude comments throughout the morning. He’d felt a little better by the time they’d been eating- probably a result of having food in his stomach- and had even managed to have a semi-normal conversation, which was nice. It felt good to make fun of Tommy again, and it was even better to see Tommy respond like himself.

He wasn’t really sure _why_ Tommy hadn’t wanted him to tell Phil about what happened with Dream last night. It wasn’t like he was going to give him all the details of how Tommy had acted- he’d just figured it would probably be important for Phil to know that Dream was probably hunting Tommy down because he’d invoked one of Dream’s permanent deaths.

But Tommy had looked at him with eyes that _begged,_ and Techno knew Phil had to know at some point. It _was_ important. But he didn’t have to know right that second, and letting Tommy tell him on his own terms was the least he could give him, and he couldn’t throw Tommy under the bus when he looked so _upset_ about it.

He and Tommy had come to a wordless agreement, though. _We have to tell him,_ Techno had seemed to say. _Not now,_ Tommy had pleaded, to which Techno had responded, _fine. But you have to tell him eventually, or I will._

And that had seemed to appease the voices, too, as they quieted down, just a bit.

But then the tea kettle whistles, and Techno actively feels every one of his brain cells simultaneously self destruct as his migraine ramps up about five-fuck-million levels.

Tommy jumps, head whipping around rapidly to locate the source of the noise, and for a split second, the panic eases the sluggishness that had dragged down each of his movements. He jumps so hard that his fork drops onto his plate, glass and metal clinking together, and one of his legs jerks hard enough that it smashes into the underside of the table, causing it to rattle dangerously, table legs squeaking against the floor.

Tommy hisses quietly at the pain, and somehow, he doesn’t seem to calm even when he spots the tea kettle spouting steam.

“Hey, it’s fine, it’s fine,” Phil says, hurriedly rising from his chair. “It’s just the tea kettle, it’s alright!”

Despite Phil’s words, Techno is worried Tommy’ll snap with how tightly wound he is. His eyes are wide and shiny and searching, defensive, as if he expects something to jump out at him from the noise, and he only seems to breathe when Phil finally gets the kettle off the heat.

“I’m sorry,” Phil mutters. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay,” Tommy says quietly, clearing his throat and settling himself back into his chair. As much as he pretends he isn’t still jumpy, Techno can see the way his eyes still flick around faster than they should, and his breath shudders just slightly.

Phil sighs, and Techno can tell he feels bad. He shouldn’t. He had no way of knowing how freaked out Tommy would be, but Phil’s always been exceedingly hard on himself. “I should’ve let you know, still. Or taken it off sooner, I don’t know-”

“Really, Phil, it’s alright,” Tommy repeats, and Phil relents at that. Silence falls over the three of them, neither tense nor comfortable, as Phil wordlessly fills three mugs with the water, chucking a teabag in each of them and leaving them to sit for a few minutes. After steeping, he dishes out sugar to two of them, cream to one, and leaves one untouched.

He sets the normal one down in front of Techno. 

“Plain tea, for your posh, fancy self,” Phil says.

“As I deserve,” he responds, and sighs gratefully as he cradles the mug in his hands. It’s a little bit hot, but with the sheer number of calluses on his hands in addition to his already thick skin, it’s tolerable. The warmth serves to calm his mind just slightly, and the voices remain murmuring, but they’re beginning to quiet down a bit.

Phil sits down with the remaining two mugs, one of which he keeps (the one with sugar and cream) and the other of which he slides over to Tommy (the one with sugar alone).

Tommy stares down at the mug, steam slowly curling up towards his face. “...Thanks, Phil, but I don’t really like tea,” he says hesitantly.

“I know,” Phil begins. “But you need to drink it. It’ll do you good, I promise.”

“Phil…” Tommy mutters, looking mildly disgusted. “It’s straight up leaf water-”

Techno sips at his tea, trying to ignore the way the voices seem to ramp up at Tommy’s stubbornness. They seem to be fretting again, begging Techno to make sure he drinks it, because supposedly hot drinks will be good for him, because it regulates body temperature or something. They don’t like that he won’t do it, and they won’t shut up about it, just like they wouldn’t shut up about the eggs before.

He runs an aggravated hand through his hair- _which you really need to brush,_ nags a little voice in his head- and resists the urge to fist a hand in it and pull, just to give him something to ground himself with. His migraine returns full force, and he tries to stamp down his rampant irritation. Why won’t Tommy just _do_ what they _say_ for once? They’re just trying to help him. Why won’t he let them? Why does he have to put up a fight over _everything?_ Why does he have to throw a fit and make the voices scream?

“No, it’s not. It has sugar in it, Toms,” Phil pleads. “It’ll ensure that you stay warm enough. You were on the brink of hypothermia five hours ago-”

“Well, I’m on the brink of losing my mind _now._ ” The voices seem to crescendo, pounding at the inside of his skull. _“_ Please, I don’t want to drink it-”

“God, Tommy, just drink the fucking tea,” Techno spits, in a desperate attempt to appease the voices.

It must work, because the voices suddenly go terrifyingly, utterly silent.

Quiet enough to hear the click of Tommy’s jaw snapping shut.

Phil stares at him, stunned, and a spark of guilt flares in Techno’s stomach at the frozen expression on Tommy’s face. His teeth are clenched shut, and he stares straight ahead with wide eyes that refuse to look at him. Eyes that shine with fear. Of the need to escape. To _survive._ It’s the look he sees in the eyes of cows and pigs and sheep in the moment when his sword is raised, ready to bear down on them.

In the same second that Techno opens his mouth to mend what he can, Tommy moves, and before either of them can stop him, he’s brought the mug to his mouth and is taking quick gulps of _hot fucking tea._

“Hey, hey! Oh my god, _stop_ ,” Phil pleads, frantic.

He reaches out for the mug, because Tommy is _definitely_ burning himself, but when Tommy sees Phil’s hand move, he flinches so hard that the tea in the mug splashes over the edge, drenching the front of Tommy’s already dilapidated shirt. He leans away from Phil, staring at him with frightened, wild eyes, and Techno doesn’t know how he isn’t even _flinching_ from the pain he knows he must be feeling due to the fact that the tea is still steaming off of Tommy’s shirt.

Phil snatches his hands away like _he’s_ the one being burned, and everything seems to go still for a moment. Phil and Tommy both breath heavily, and there’s a slight whistle in Tommy’s, as his breathing is noticeably faster than either of theirs. Tommy balances precariously on the edge of his chair, mug still clutched in his hands. Phil holds his hands out in the universal sign for peace, and he stays that way until he’s reasonably sure that Tommy won’t start trying to chug it again.

“Tommy-”

“I thought that was what you wanted me to do,” Tommy whispers, and the words are spoken almost too quickly to understand, as if he expects to be cut off. As if he needs to get them out before he runs out of time or air or some other resource that Techno can’t see. 

Phil and Techno look to each other, both equally confused.

Techno considers speaking, but he’s never been the best at instilling _calm_ in people. He didn’t make the most docile figure, always having been a bit intimidating, even when he’d been a child. It doesn’t help that the high intensity of the situation has made his tusks begin to poke out of his gums, and though he manages to keep them in for the most part, it doesn’t stop his cheeks from puffing out the slightest bit, and Tommy has known him long enough to know what that meant.

He’s sure if he were to try his hand at de-escalation or comfort, he’d only end up making things worse. So he keeps his mouth shut and leaves it to Phil.

Phil begins, voice soft and slow. Careful. Like Tommy’s a bird caught in a thistle, and he doesn’t want to scare him, lest he injure himself further. “I wanted you to drink the tea once it was cooled down,” he says. “Because I want to make sure you’re alright. Okay, Toms? You’re okay. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Tommy stares, and all Techno sees in his gaze is confusion. Like he doesn’t quite understand what he’s being told.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” Tommy mutters, and Techno suddenly notices how pale he’s gone. “Whatever you want, just- just- you don't have to...”

He cuts himself off, eyes flicking to the ground. He seems to hunch in on himself, just slightly. Waiting. Tensed.

Phil simply halts, appalled. Techno has to agree. Something dark and distressed curls around his ribs at the way Tommy braces for something that will never come.

Not from them.

Not ever.

( _How can you be so sure?_ Whispers a traitorous voice in his head.

It isn’t one of the _voices._ It isn’t one of them.

He knows, because it sounds like him.

_How can you be so sure, when it was you who named him Theseus and condemned him to his fate? When it was you who summoned beasts to hunt him down? When it was you who told him to die like a hero? How can you be so sure?_

_I don’t know,_ he whispers back.

But, secretly, he thinks,

_I can’t.)_

“Tommy.” The word is firm, but kind. It’s sad. From that single word, Techno knows that Phil feels every inch the same anguish he does. “Tommy, can you look at me?”

Tommy curls tighter into himself.

“Please?”

There’s a tense pause, but eventually, Tommy does.

It’s slow. Excruciatingly, horribly slow. But nonetheless, Tommy looks into Phil’s eyes through his hair. He shifts uncomfortably, and Techno can see the way he yearns to look away. But he holds the gaze, no matter how hard his fingers shake around the mug.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Phil vows. “And I never will. I can promise you that.”

Personally, Techno thinks that’s a foolish promise to make.

But, strangely, he finds himself believing Phil. (He hopes Tommy does, too.)

But even stranger is the fact that Techno catches a similar promise on the tip of his own tongue, resting between his teeth.

Instead of letting it out, he pushes it into the back of his throat, and swallows it.

(He almost chokes on it. But he’d rather choke on a swallowed promise than a broken one.)

Tommy doesn’t really seem to comprehend it. He remains frozen, peering at Phil doubtfully, and his eyes immediately fixate on Phil’s hand when it’s held out to him.

“Do you think you can give me the mug?” Phil asks, keeping his voice that same soothing, calm tone- but Techno can hear the slight tremble in his voice, despite the way his hand is completely still in the air. “I just don’t want you to get hurt any worse.”

Tommy releases a shuddering, uncertain breath. 

There’s a moment in which Techno thinks he won’t respond- that he’s too lost in his own head to understand anything Phil says or does outside of his potential for being a threat. Like he’s devolved to the state of a wild animal, thinking of nothing but survival.

But, after a moment, Tommy gradually, haltingly, moves. His eyes remain fixated on Phil’s hand, and his hands shake tremendously, to the point where Techno is a little bit worried he’ll end up spilling it again before Phil has the chance to take it from him.

Nonetheless, the mug makes it to Phil’s hands safely- excluding the few rivulets that spill over the sides- and Phil wastes no time in setting it on the table out of Tommy’s reach.

Phil waits, for a moment, giving Tommy a moment to breathe. He just sits, and looks into his eyes, expression reassuring and constant. Steady.

A few moments pass. Then, finally, something seems to click in Tommy’s head, and he seems to snap back into himself. Like he hadn’t been entirely inside his body until that moment.

“Oh,” he breathes simply, shifting off of the edge of his chair to a more balanced position.

Tommy seems to force himself to relax, the panic on his face smoothing away unnaturally. His shoulders suddenly drop from their hunched state, and Techno can tell he’s not really relaxed at all. There’s a tenseness to the very way his spine is held, and while he may have forced his body into submission, he only succeeds in making himself look somehow limp and stiff at once. It’s eerie. Like a scarecrow, or an android powered off. Like a puppet with all but one of its strings cut.

It makes Techno’s skin crawl.

“Hey, Toms,” Phil says, and Techno thinks his smile actually reaches his eyes, just barely.

“....Hi.” His voice breaks on the single syllable, but for the first time since the ordeal had begun, he sees _Tommy_ behind his eyes, rather than a creature functioning solely on survival instincts.

Techno steels himself, for a moment, before deciding to speak. “Tommy,” he begins simply, and he ignores the way his heart twinges with pain at the way Tommy’s breath hitches at the sound of his voice. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to scare you. That was my bad. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

Tommy stalls. He doesn’t look in his eyes. (Not that Techno expected him to, really.)

“It’s alright,” he says finally, and like his body, his words sound false and calculated in spite of their “normal” tone.

Overall, Tommy just doesn’t look right.

“It’s not,” he continues, and something strange falls over Tommy’s face. Something like shame, maybe, or embarrassment.

“No, really, it’s fine,” Tommy insists, voice still rough, probably due to the near boiling water he’d tried to swallow. “I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have flipped out like that. Not your fault I’m apparently a pussy now.”

 _Not your fault you were traumatized, you mean,_ Techno thinks, but doesn’t say, because he knows Tommy well enough to know that he would probably never admit it. Not as long as he thought of it as something that made him weak.

He clears his throat, and feels his tusks finally fully retreat into his jaw. “Still.” 

Tommy shrugs halfheartedly, and it does nothing to alleviate the thick, oily sensation of guilt coating the inside of his lungs.

He doesn’t know why it hurts so bad that he’d scared Tommy like that. It’s clear he’d reminded him of something else- that wasn’t Tommy’s normal reaction to being spoken too like that. He hates the fact that he knows who, in all likelihood, had instilled that reaction in him.

He doesn’t know why it hurts so bad when he had no problem with the look of terror in Tommy’s eyes when he’d destroyed L’manberg.

“I need to take a look at your chest,” Phil cuts in, forehead pinched worriedly. “Does it hurt? That was pretty hot water.”

“Not really,” Tommy mumbles, but Techno doesn’t think he can be blamed for not really believing him. He finds it hard to believe Tommy would tell them even if it did, what with the kid’s resentment for potions (and general lack of willingness to show weakness).

Phil regards him doubtfully, but doesn’t push it. “Alright, well. We need to get you clean clothes anyways.”

He looks to Techno, then, some sort of mischievous hope in his expression, and he can’t help but jump at attention suddenly being directed towards him. “What?”

“....Do you think Tommy could maybe borrow some of your clothes?” He asks, and Techno shifts, confused.

“Why can’t he borrow some of yours? Isn’t he closer to you in size than he is to me, anyways?” 

Phil rubs the back of his neck. “We are, but most of my clothes are back at my house in L’manberg. I have some stuff here, but it won’t be enough for the both of us.”

Techno stares, pondering.

“It’ll only be till we have the chance to get him some of his own clothes,” Phil assures him, and Techno relents, figuring Tommy at least deserves some clothes untarnished by blood and tea.

“Sure, I guess,” he says, and Phil smiles at him gratefully.

“Great.” He stands, then, and waits for Tommy to join him. When Tommy remains, staring into space, he says, “Come on, Toms. Let’s get you something clean to wear.”

Tommy’s eyes refocus, and he rises from his chair as if on autopilot. Phil leads him to the doorway, and turns before leaving.

“Are you coming, Tech?” He asks, and Techno cups his mug with both hands, reveling still in the warmth.

He ponders it for a moment, but shakes his head after a moment’s deliberation. He trusts Phil not to lend Tommy any of his important clothing, and he kind of wants a moment for himself.

A lot had happened, and he’d only been awake for like, an hour, tops.

“Alright,” Phil says hesitantly, eyeing him, concerned. Techno waves him off, and they retreat down the hall.

Before they do, though, Tommy stares at his tea, discarded on the table. He tucks a strand of blonde hair behind his ear.

Curiously, he grabs it, before he follows Phil out of the kitchen.

Techno decides that’s something he’ll try and analyze at a later date.

He waits until he can hear their footsteps on the stairs to collapse, pressing his forehead to the cool table.

He takes a moment just to breathe, and calm his still racing heart.

Strangely, the voices remain silent.

(He wonders why the fuck they scream so loud when their voices get so lost in one another. He wonders why they’re so insistent one moment only to flee entirely in the next.)

Once he’s calmed down enough so as not to feel like he’s one step away from falling apart into a pile of flesh and blood and bone, he stands on slightly unsteady legs, bringing his mug along with him.

He leans against the counter, the rising sun shining on his back through the window. The light hits his tangled hair, refracting off the pink strands in a red glow. He works his fingers through it absentmindedly, and silently drops a handful of sugar cubes into his mug.

He sips his tea. He sighs.

If nothing else, at least Phil still thinks he takes his tea plain.

★★★★★

The moment Tommy steps out of the kitchen, it’s like the vice wrapped around his throat suddenly releases.

He breathes in air like he’s starved of it, only bothering to slow himself down so as not to catch Phil’s attention.

He’s almost dizzy with it, the sudden surplus of oxygen that has been granted to him.

He hadn’t even realized he’d been choking until he found the strength to breathe again.

Phil doesn’t seem to notice Tommy’s newfound liberation as he leads him up the stairs and into one of the few rooms on the upper floor. The room is open and tidy, with a bed that would look decadent, complete with an elegant canopy and everything, had it not been completely barren of any blankets. There’s an intricately patterned rug covering most of the floor, and wood of the floor and walls serve to make the space seem warm and cozy, despite the minor chill that permeates it. It’s probably due to the slightly cracked window, which Phil hurries to shut when he sees Tommy shiver once. 

It’s all over once he sees what lies by the bed.

“Oh my god, _dog,”_ he gasps, shoving his mug into Phil’s surprised hands and making a beeline to the dog bed in the corner, sliding to his knees beside it. The dappled Australian shepherd lifts its head from where it had been resting on its paws, sniffing at him curiously as its tail thumps excitedly against the bed.

Phil chuckles softly, moving to stand by him. “Oh, yeah, that’s Em. She’s Techno’s dog.”

“Can I please pet her or will she attack me?” Tommy begs, barely managing to keep his hands still as he longs to give her scratches. He only manages to contain himself because he knows Techno would absolutely train his dog to attack people she didn’t know, and just because she hadn’t yet didn’t mean she wouldn’t.

“No, go ahead! She’s a sweetheart.”

The moment Phil gives the go ahead, Tommy is burying his hands in her thick fur, and she gives him one of those dog smiles, tongue lolling out of her mouth. She stands up, body curling back and forth with the force of her wagging tail, and Tommy lets out a noise that sounds like some sort of mix between a sob and a laugh.

“Yes you are,” he mutters. “You’re such a sweetheart! So pretty. Such a good girl.”

At one point, he gives up on petting her and resorts to straight up hugging her, face smushed up against her fur. She pants next to his face, giving him happy licks, and he squirms away when her tongue finds its way into his ear.

“Phil,” Tommy says seriously, turning to him. “I would die for her. I would fucking _die_ for her. Actually, you know what? No. I would _kill a man_ for her. She is just so pog.”

Phil snorts, and Tommy turns back to Em, cooing at the way she sits patiently. He loses his mind when he holds up a hand and she habitually gives him a high five, giving her endless praises and smiling like he’d never seen a dog before.

He smiles so wide his cheeks hurt. He can’t remember the last time he was this happy.

She smiles back at him, happy just to be receiving attention, and for some reason, it makes tears prick his eyes at the pure joy he sees in her.

It makes him miss Henry so much that it aches. The innocence Tommy had seen in him is the same innocence he sees in Em.

He blinks them away. It’s so stupid that he has to force himself not to cry over a fucking _dog,_ but. 

Well.

She’s a really cute dog.

“You are the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” he tells her, and she yips quietly. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she understood him or something. He cups his hands on her fluffy cheeks, looking into her warm brown eyes, and his heart physically feels like it’s going to burst. “I love you _so much.”_

She noses her way into his neck, and he laughs, squirming at her wet nose. She snuffles at his shirt, licking at it for a reason Tommy can’t comprehend, until he remembers the tea that still drenches a sizable portion of his front.

He acknowledges that he should probably go find some clothes with Phil, devastated, but- but he doesn’t want to _leave_ her. She’s too perfect.

Forcing himself to wrench his hands away from her soft fur is like pulling teeth.

He sighs, filled with pain and anguish, and apologizes profusely to her as he stands. He presses a short kiss to her little forehead, snorting at the way she rams her nose into her chin.

He forces himself not to look back as he returns to Phil’s side, because he knows if he saw her sweet eyes staring at him one more time, he’d never be able to leave.

Phil looks at him, lips pressed together, presumably to keep from laughing. He glares at Phil’s dumb, smug amusement.

“Shut up,” he says, and Phil wheezes.

“Okay, okay, let’s get you some clothes.”

Tommy takes his mug back as Phil opens a door off to the side, revealing a small but separate room, lined with various articles of clothing. There are two sets of drawers and a mirror, and even the carpet in the closet is soft on his feet as he enters.

God, of course Techno would have a _walk-in closet._ That dickhead was so dramatic.

“Okay,” Phil mutters, hands immediately going to shift through the items hung up. “Hopefully we can find something in here that’ll fit you well enough, till we can get you something else.”

Tommy absentmindedly browses the hangers, taking a sip of his tea. He expects it to be nasty, like every other tea he’s ever tried, and he wouldn’t have grabbed it if there weren’t a nagging bit of anxiety still screaming at him that he needs to do what Techno says.

Surprisingly, though, it’s not that bad. It’s fruitier than normal, and sweeter, too- less like leaf water and a bit more like berry water, maybe. He hesitates to say it, but it’s kind of… _good._

“What is this?” Tommy asks Phil, who turns to look at him.

Phil smiles. “It’s raspberry and sage,” he says, and leans in close, whispering conspiratorially, “Techno will say his favorite is plain black or green, because he thinks it’s refined, but it’s this one. He likes fruity teas. I don’t understand why he won’t just tell me that, but I pretend like it’s my favorite so I have an excuse to make it for him more.”

It sounds exactly like something Techno would do. It sparks memories of when they were younger- Tommy hadn’t been allowed to drink coffee till he was, like, twelve, but he vividly remembers Wilbur goading Techno into taking a large gulp of completely black coffee. Wilbur always took it straight- something about the caffeine hitting stronger- but Techno had always put an absolutely ridiculous amount of cream and sugar in his. He remembers his face screwing up horrifically as he forced himself to swallow it. He remembers Wilbur’s hyena-esque cackle, and the way Techno had lunged at him for laughing, and Wilbur’s long, gangly limbs tearing through the house as Techno chased after him.

He’d been ten, then, or somewhere around there. Wilbur and Techno had both been sixteen.

God.

It was only six years ago, but it felt like centuries.

“It’s not… _completely_ disgusting,” He mumbles begrudgingly.

Phil sighs, and says, tentatively, “You know, you don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to. The intention wasn’t to force you into drinking tea.”

Tommy pauses, and then takes another sip. He focuses on the taste, and the sweetness of it. “No, it’s alright. It’s not so bad.”

Phil _hmms,_ though he doesn’t seem entirely convinced, which Tommy supposes makes sense considering his fucking meltdown over it just a few minutes prior.

It wasn’t even that he’d genuinely, logically thought that Techno would hurt him over tea. It was just that the tone of his voice, the unforgiving solidity of it, it… it reminded him a bit too much of TNT and petty blows that promised to be more than petty. It tripped some wire in him that made him want to behave, and do what he was told, out of fear of what might happen if he didn’t.

He hates the way he’s turned into some complacent dog who rolls over at the first sign of irritation.

He shakes the thoughts away and returns to sliding the hangers around, observing the options presented to him. There’s a multitude of cloaks in varying lengths and weights, but he moves past those to the shirts.

“God, does he own anything besides frilly button ups?” he says, and it’s true. He’s spent several moments looking, and he can’t find a single normal T-shirt. Not even a long sleeved one, or a hoodie. They’re all those fancy, pressed shirts with the ruffles at the collar. Some have more or less ruffles, and some have these ridiculous, flowy sleeves, but they all look like something some French nobleman would wear in the seventeenth century. “What does he _sleep_ in? He’s gotta have like, sleep shirts, right?”

“He has one,” Phil confirms.

“Great. Where is it?”

Phil gives him a side eyed glance, and says, “He’s wearing it.”

Tommy presses his lips together. A stubborn lock of hair falls, annoyingly, into his eyes, and he pushes it back once again.

“That’s so weird. What a pompous bastard.”

Phil ends up picking out the simplest shirt he can find- which is still fancier than anything Tommy’s probably ever worn, aside from his L’manberg uniform. Luckily, it has normal sleeves, and they managed to find probably the one shirt without frills in the entire closet, though the collar is still unusually high. The material isn’t scratchy like he thought it would be, and it’s not as uncomfortable as he would expect, but he still longs for some normal fucking clothes.

The pants are a little easier to deal with. They’re a dark brown, though the only reason they fit at the waist is because they have some weird fancy drawstring thing, which he ties snugly into a bow. They’re strangely high waisted, the waistband extending just past his belly button, but he blames that on the fact that they’re several sizes too big for him. At least there aren’t any frills on them, right?

Seeing as Techno is taller than he is, and larger, the sleeves flop past his hands and the pants drag on the floor, so he ends up having to roll them both up.

Phil observes the clothes, eventually approving them with a nod. As he does, Tommy’s hair once again pulls a bitch move and falls into his eyes. It’s not even that long- it hasn’t been _that_ long since he’d cut it- but it’s long enough that it curls under his ears, and it tickles his chin when it falls into his face.

“Hey, Phil?” He asks eventually, to which Phil _hmms._ “D’you think you could cut my hair sometime soon?”

Phil studies his hair for a moment. “It is getting long, isn’t it?"

“Yeah. Fuckin’ annoying, really.”

Phil huffs a soft laugh. “Sure! I can do it tomorrow.”

“Nice,” Tommy says. His hair falls again, and Phil frowns, squinting. He looks through a few drawers, opening and closing them till he evidently finds what he’s looking for. He snatches whatever it is triumphantly, handing it to Tommy.

“Here.”

It’s a soft, black ribbon.

“Uh,” he says simply.

Phil blinks, confused. “For your hair? To keep it out of your face, till we can cut it?”

“Oh." He turns the ribbon over in his hands, winding it around his fingers. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“I’ll show you,” Phil says.

Tommy sits on his knees before the mirror, and Phil stands behind him with the ribbon. Phil deftly gathers up the top half of his hair into one hand, and a shiver runs through him at the feeling of blunt nails on his scalp. He walks him through it as he transfers the hair from hand to hand to tie the ribbon into a neat, tidy bow, and Tommy is left with a little sprig of hair gathered atop his head, long enough to be secured into the little ponytail, but not much longer. Tommy might complain about the style looking like a woman’s had it not been so nice not to have his hair constantly in his face.

At the end of it all, he actually feels a lot more comfortable, now that he had clean clothes on (even if they made him look like some kind of haunted victorian boy) and his hair safely tied back.

It’s strange, to be _clean_ for the first time since he’d left L’manberg.

He’d gotten so used to the layer of dirt and earth that clung to his skin that he’d forgotten what it was like before it was there.

His hair is soft to the touch when he twirls a long around his finger. The fabric of his sleeves aren’t rough or gritty when he curls a hand into it, the material smooth and pleasant. His hands are unblemished _,_ and soft, and free of the rusty red that’d seemed to plague him far too often.

His body, finally, is _clean._

So why is his mind still so stained with mud and ash and smoke?

Why does the crackling of lava still seem to echo in his ears?

Why is it that sometimes, in some moments, he almost thinks he can smell gunpowder?

Why is he still so _fucked up._

He hates the way his brain goes so foggy in moments of silence. He hates the way every time somebody breaks it, he jumps, because he almost forgot he wasn’t alone anymore.

He hates the way he can’t remember, sometimes, why he ever left Dream. He hates the way he hates him in some moments and loves him in others. He hates the way they fight, sometimes, in his head- like he can’t even trust his own mind.

He hates the way he shakes so bad. He hates the way he gets scared so easily. He hates the way he can’t eat as much anymore, can’t inhale food the way he used to, the way Phil always poked fun at him for.

He hates the way he keeps forgetting what Techno and Phil have done. To him. To Tubbo. To all of L’manberg. To _Wilbur._

He hates the way he catches himself beginning to let his guard down, sometimes. Hates the way Phil’s hug had almost made him feel safe. Hates the way Techno keeping his secret had felt something like the trust he used to have in him.

He hates the way Techno and Phil look at him sometimes. Like he’s weak. Like he’s helpless. Like he’s a little kid who needs somebody to hold his hand in case he wanders off. Like he can’t be trusted not to get himself hurt if left alone.

(He hates the way he doesn’t really trust himself not to, either.

It’s not as if Techno had been wrong to worry about him drowning in the bath.

It’s not as if hypothermia is the only reason he would.

It’s not as if the lava doesn’t call to him, still, in the quiet moments.)

He hates the way he _should_ be able to act like his old self, but he just…. _Can’t._

More than anything, though, he hates the way he stops being upset about it a few moments later.

He hates the way he turns into a ghost the moment he forgets to feel.

★★★★★

The rest of the day goes by in a haze of smoke, for Tommy.

Every moment he lives feels like it’s being lived by somebody else- like some horrific game of telephone between his eyes and ears and his brain.

He remembers things in bits and pieces. He remembers Techno bringing Em down for her breakfast. He remembers his mouth moving when Phil had asked him if he wanted another cup of tea; _no thanks,_ he’d said, but he can’t remember ever giving his tongue or lips or teeth the permission to make that sound. He remembers Techno and Phil discussing his old clothes- Phil wanted to burn them. Techno insisted they could be salvaged. He’d even wash them himself, he’d said. He also remembers Phil throwing out the idea that, maybe, they could turn the attic’s storage area into a room for Tommy. He’d begin working on crafting a bed tomorrow.

He doesn’t really remember those very clearly, though. Conversations don’t stick in his head as well as other things. Stupider things.

He remembers Techno, by the sink, painstakingly brushing out his hair. He remembers the plants hanging by the window in the kitchen, and the leaf that had fallen into the window sill. He remembers the soft texture of the blue blanket Techno had draped over his shoulders, which he’d habitually curled his fingers into, and the colors of the fire he’d sat huddled up by. He remembers Carl’s whinny as Phil went out to tend to him for the day. He remembers the way the fabric of Techno’s expensive shirt shifted on his skin when Phil led him by the elbow to the table for dinner. He remembers the metal grooves in the fork being pushed into his hand, and he remembers eating, but he doesn’t remember what he ate. He remembers the gentle way Em had licked his hand as he lied on the couch (though he doesn’t remember how he got there). He remembers how soft the fur of her ears were as he absentmindedly pet her as he fell asleep.

(He doesn’t remember the concerned looks Phil and Techno fix him with the entire afternoon. He doesn’t remember the nightmare that he writhes with in the dark of the living room. He doesn’t remember the gentle hand rubbing circles on his back, soothing him back to sleep.)

But, really, he doesn’t mind.

He doesn’t mind, because at least he’s not sad. At least he’s not angry. At least he’s not scared.

At least he doesn’t have to feel, when he forgets.

★★★★★

Techno sits, munching on his potatoes, and stares at Tommy.

He doesn’t try to hide the fact that he is, because he knows Tommy won’t notice. Or, maybe, he already has, and he just doesn’t give a shit.

Either way, he stares him dead in the eyes, and tries to find any semblance of awareness. Tommy gazes with disinterested, unblinking eyes at the center of the table as he takes yet another small bite of potatoes. He does it like it’s been programmed into him- scoop, chew for approximately ten seconds, swallow, repeat.

It’s how he’s done everything, since he’d come downstairs wearing Techno’s clothes the day before.

He looks to Phil, whose gaze is also fixated on Tommy.

He knows Phil feels just as useless as he does from the way Phil meets his eyes and shrugs.

Guilt flares in his throat, and he tries to remember the conversation they’d had the night before, after Tommy had gone to sleep:

_“Whatever this is isn’t your fault, Tech,” Phil had said. Techno wonders for the millionth time what kind of psychotic sense of empathy he must have. Maybe his wings came with telepathy or something. It would certainly explain all the times Phil had managed to know exactly what he needed to hear, despite Techno not telling him anything._

_“Isn’t it, though?” He insists. “I’m the one who freaked him out. I made him think he was gonna get straight up murdered because he didn’t want to drink tea.”_

_“First of all, you had no way of knowing what effect that was going to have on him,” Phil chides. “But I don’t think that’s what set this off. He was rattled after we went upstairs, of course, but… not like this.”_

_“Still. A fear induced panic attack couldn’t have helped, and I should’ve known better.”_

_“We can’t take back what’s been done, and we can’t erase whatever trauma he went through.” Phil places a hand on his shoulder, and he finds himself reassured by the comforting weight. “I scared him, too, remember? With the tea kettle. All we can do is learn from this, and try our best to keep it from happening again.”_

_Techno sighs._

_“We’re going to make more mistakes, and so will he. Helping him heal will be a long process, and it’s gonna be hard. I’m not sure when or if he’ll ever overcome it completely.” Phil pauses, and runs a hand through his hair. “But I’m not taking the easy way out this time.”_

_Techno covers Phil's hand on his shoulder with his own, and squeezes. Phil turns his hand over and squeezes back._

_“We just need to give him time. He’ll come back to us.”_

In the moment, Techno had believed him. But as the day drags forward and Tommy shows no sign of emerging from whatever absent state of mind he’d gone into, he finds that belief faltering.

He distracts himself with whatever arbitrary tasks need to be completed. He feeds Em, and takes her on a walk through the forest. He harvests honey from the bees. He washes Tommy’s shirt and does his best to mend the numerous tears that litter it, and though he manages to get the majority of the dirt out, the red splotches remain, stubbornly refusing to scrub out. He decides to try again later, and hopes that Tommy will be okay with using it as a sleep shirt.

He works on carving out Tommy’s bed frame while Phil travels to retrieve a mattress from the village. They’d learned the hard way that, though the mattresses crafted there were very comfortable, their bed frames were dubious at best, and a creaking, splintering mess that threatened to collapse at any moment at worst.

(And if he secretly carves a few symbols into the bottom of the corner posts, nobody sees it. And if those symbols are meant to bring quick healing and contentedness, well. Phil and Tommy were none the wiser.)

He helps Phil clear out the attic- which had mainly been used for storage thus far- and they make good use of their time. Phil had asked Tommy the day before what he thought about sleeping in the attic, to which Tommy had given an apathetic, _“sure.”_ Phil had asked him if he was sure, and Tommy had said, _“anything’s fine.”_ Techno knows it’s probably true, considering he’d slept in a tent for the past month, but the automated nature of the responses dig at him. 

He hates it. He finds himself missing Tommy’s irritating stubbornness. He’d rather Tommy fight him on everything than remain completely impassive and malleable. It comes to the point where he’s sure he could tell Tommy to walk off a cliff and Tommy would give him a monotone _alright_ and walk right off like a wind up toy.

It’s interesting, though, because midway through transporting everything from the attic to a room in the basement, Tommy suddenly asks Phil if he can cut his hair. Phil cringes, holding a box full of literal stone, and asks if it can wait till after they’re done with the attic. Tommy nods, responding immediately with _“yeah, yeah, of course. It can wait.”_ Phil’s face pinches with guilt, but it’s quickly overtaken as his muscles tremble with the weight of the box in his arms, and he hurries to deposit it in the basement.

Phil sets him up to dinner when the time rolls around while he closes in on the attic, and he’s sure he only does it because he knows Techno will lose his mind if he’s not doing something useful.

He becomes exceedingly grateful when Phil doesn’t even complain that his meal of choice was baked potatoes. Potato related meals were the only things he could make, really, outside of sliced fruits and vegetables. Everything else he’d ever tried involving the furnace ended in either impossibly burnt food or flames, and he wasn’t really looking to branch out.

Tommy ate the food the same way he’d eaten breakfast that morning and dinner the night before. Phil had to physically lead him to his chair, and put the fork in his hand- but once he did, whatever wacked out muscle memory Tommy had kicked in. He ate more than he did before. Techno wonders if it’s a result of the state of mind he was in, or if it was just a benefit of moving further away from hypothermia.

Though the attic isn’t quite finished, with a few boxes still needing to be moved and Techno not quite done with the bedframe, Phil decides the mattress is better than the couch, so they set it up on the floor underneath the window. He’d grabbed more blankets and a few pillows on his trip to the village, so they could all have their own. Phil takes his own back, and Techno grabs one of his, but Tommy still had his blue one wrapped around his shoulders. He considers taking it- and he really, _really_ wants to, because it’s his _blanket_ \- but he stops in his tracks, because of the way Tommy’s hands are fisted in it. He lets him be, because of the way he can see one of his thumbs rubbing along the wool, the way he seems to burrow into it, and he couldn’t stand to see the foggy look of confusion he knows would shape Tommy’s face if he were to take it away.

(He wonders when the hell he got so soft. So _weak._

He thinks, maybe, it was when he’d seen Tommy’s resignation two days earlier on his couch.

Or maybe, it was when he’d seen the shakiness in the handwriting of the letter he’d sent him, and the subsequent desperation in Tommy’s eyes when he’d arrived in Pogtopia.

He wonders if it could’ve been before that, when he’d seen the determination beyond the dejection when he’d knocked Tommy down for the fifteenth time, when he’d first taught him to swordfight.

It’s even possible that it was when he’d seen the scrawny, defensive kid backing away from him in the dark of the kitchen, clutching two loaves of bread with shaking hands like they were his only earthly possessions. The fear in his eyes, and the anger, too. Eyes like the sky, with its sun and endless blue, but all of its thunder and rain and grey clouds, too.

Or maybe it was the moment Wilbur first braided his hair, and he decided then that he’d never learn to do it himself, because of the peculiar warmth in his chest that spread with each strand woven by Wil’s deft hands.

It could even be when Phil had first held his hand- Techno on one side, Wilbur on the other- and begun to learn that maybe, his kindness wasn’t fake.

But he wasn’t ready to consider that maybe, he’d always been soft. It’s hard to imagine, with the thick layer of metal that now covers his skin, and the glass that sits in his mouth, ready to cut or splinter further with each word he speaks.

He doesn’t want to think about the possibility that he may have welded the metal on himself. That he may have placed those shards on his tongue, one by one, so that none of his words would ever go unheard ever again.)

That night, Phil insists on being the one to keep an eye on Tommy, as Techno had done it the first two nights. At first, Techno had protested- _really, Phil, I can operate on much less sleep than you, especially considering you can barely function on a full eight hours-_ but after seeing the look in Phil’s eyes, and seeing his own feelings of uselessness reflected in them, he relented.

It might’ve been a good thing, Techno thinks, when he lays down to find that his eyelids have somehow accumulated the weight of everything he’s seen and heard and felt in the last three days. He’d slept the first night, but the second, he hadn’t slept at all.

He found himself glad he hadn’t, when Tommy had begun to toss and turn in his sleep, muttering things Techno didn’t understand- _take it, take it all, I’m sorry, please don’t leave me alone._ Techno had never been the best at comfort, but that was one of the very few things he knew he could do. He remembers, some nights, when they were younger, he would wander the house unable to sleep with his voices, and he would hear those noises coming from Tommy’s room. Phil had always wanted him to wake him up when that happened, but Tommy always begged him not to. _It’s just a stupid dream,_ he would say, face round with youth and wet with tears. _Don’t wanna bother him. I’m fine._

Techno never knew what to say. _It’s not stupid,_ and _it’s okay to be scared_ were his go to’s, but he never thought it helped much. Tommy wasn’t one for words either, really, so it made sense that the things that made him feel safe were the actions.

So Techno would stay until he fell asleep. He’d mess with his hair, or rub his back, or just lay a hand on his shoulder, and Tommy would fall back asleep eventually. They never mentioned it in the light of day, but he saw the trust and relief in Tommy’s eyes every time he opened the door. Like he knew, then, that he’d be okay- and that was always enough of a thank you for Techno.

It was harder to see the same trust in Tommy, when he’d woken up that night, as it was shrouded in fear and panic and confusion. It had been clear that he wasn’t fully conscious, especially because Techno isn’t entirely certain that Tommy would’ve even let him close if he was. But he knew that trust was still there, when Tommy’s panicked breathing had slowed down when he saw it was Techno who had shaken him awake. He saw it in the way Tommy practically melted into the couch when he’d run his hand gently up and down Tommy’s back. In the way he’d returned to sleep within minutes.

He hopes it doesn’t happen that night.

(He blatantly ignores how his heart aches at the thought of Tommy having a nightmare without him there to fight it off. Suppresses the part of him that wants to know how many he must’ve had in exile, completely alone.

He tries his hardest to silence the fleeting voice that whispers, _imagine how many he’s had about you._

It doesn’t work.)

The next day, he finishes Tommy’s bedframe. It’s not the most decadent or detailed thing he’s ever made, but it’s sturdy and reliable and sanded to prevent splinters, so it’s good enough in his eyes. 

The attic loses the last of its boxes and bins- though two small sets of drawers are cleared out and placed on either side of Tommy’s bed for storage- and the bedframe hauled up two fucking flights of stairs, which makes Techno regret not crafting it directly up there. The mattress is settled onto it, and though the rest of the room is a little barren, it officially looks like a bedroom rather than an attic. It’s one of those attics with slanted roofs, so it’s not super spacious, but the fact remains.

As a final touch, Phil drags out some random rug Techno has never seen before from the basement and unrolls it at the foot of the bed. They place a lantern on top of each set of drawers, and at the end of it all, Techno honestly thinks it ain’t half bad.

They retrieve Tommy from the living room, and lead him up the stairs to show him. Upon opening the door, Tommy simply gazes around the room, and Techno feels a split second of crippling disappointment at the lack of reaction for something he’d thought Tommy would’ve been excited about.

But then Tommy’s eyes widen, just slightly, and he says, “Wait… this is for _me?”_

Techno wonders if he even remembers sleeping in the attic the night before. Considering his reaction, he doubts it.

“It’s for you, Toms,” Phil confirms, an amused smile tugging on his lips.

Tommy looks shell shocked, taking in the room, before he smiles, and though his eyes are still far away, they spark with just the slightest bit of joy. The way they scrunch at the edges makes it the first genuine smile Techno’s seen in the past two days, and though it is small, just barely showing teeth, some knot in his chest he hadn’t known was there loosens.

He approaches the bed- and the progress shown by Tommy doing it on his own is not lost on Techno- and runs a hand over the ball shape atop one of the bedposts. He sits on the bed, and seems to just breathe for a moment. “I get my own room,” he mutters, seemingly in awe. 

Techno shares a look with Phil, and he feels a little flicker of pride warm between his ribs.

Tommy looks out the window, then. “In the attic,” he begins. He smiles, close lipped, and this time, it’s bittersweet. Techno doesn’t know why, until he speaks again. “Just like back home.”

He and Phil both freeze, then. Something clenches painfully within Techno’s chest.

He’d called it _home._

A sort of pain he hadn’t known existed takes his heart in its grasp.

God, he hadn’t even realized he missed it.

_Home._

He’d been calling this place home, this cabin in the snow, but… is it?

Conventionally, yes, it should be.

But he remembers, then, something Wilbur had said, the day he and Tommy had left. _This is your home,_ Phil had said, in some vain attempt to keep them there. _It was yours, too,_ Wil had whispered, the pain and hurt condensing and burning to become anger. _Before you left. And then you were gone, and it wasn’t home anymore._

He remembers the way it had hurt. It hurt to see them go, yes- more than anything had ever hurt before. But it hurt to realize that it was _his fault._

Phil had always been plagued with wanderlust. It was undeniable- it was easy to forget when he and Wilbur had been young, only making itself known in the irrepressible restlessness that would come over Phil every once in a while. But once they got older, and once Tommy had turned about ten and Wilbur and Techno were old enough to take care of both him and themselves, it was impossible to deny. He wouldn't leave often, really, only once every few months for a few weeks, but he couldn't stay any longer than that without itching to move. Sometimes, Techno would join him, and he would share in the joy of discovery that his father had had all his life. Wilbur used to ask if he could tag along, but after a few times being turned down, he'd come to realize that Tommy was too young; somebody needed to be there to watch over him, and Techno wasn't as good at playing babysitter as he was.

Thinking about it now, it's no wonder Wilbur had run so fast. He was an arrow long strung, aching to be released- it's no wonder he flew so far. 

But before Techno left for good, Phil had never even considered leaving for longer than a few weeks. It had instantly flipped his visiting schedule, staying away and visiting Tommy and Wilbur once every couple of months. Techno never joined him. 

He was the one so deadset on becoming a threat, a force of nature, _the best_ duelist in the world that he hadn’t even realized he’d forced Phil to choose between them when he’d asked him to come with him. All he’d known was that Phil had chosen him, and he hadn’t stopped to consider what it must’ve been like for them. 

He’d missed them. Of course he had. But he had the choice to return- to be with them. Wilbur and Tommy didn’t.

He realizes, then, that he hadn’t felt at home since he’d left. Not really. A false sense of it, for sure, in more places than he could count- in that tavern across the ocean. In the cave he and Phil had stayed in for a month. In the ramshackle hut they’d constructed for overnight use in the mountains.

In this cabin in the snow.

But something had been missing from all of them. 

And he thinks, finally, he’s found out what it is.

“Yeah,” he says, finally. “Just like back home.”

★★★★★

Tommy stays in his new room for the rest of the day. Techno can’t tell if it’s because he’s excited about it or if it’s just a lack of will to leave, but he’s reassured by the memory of Tommy’s reaction earlier, so he lets it go.

Phil mentions that they’re running low on both lumber and meat, which makes sense, considering they hadn’t gone to collect either since about a week before Tommy’d gotten there. Techno offers to go hunting, to which Phil agrees to gather some lumber.

They both gather their things, and Phil is about to leave, geared up with his axe in hand, when Tommy comes down the stairs. 

He asks, again, if they could cut his hair. It confuses Techno even more. He’d asked the day before, too, and he wonders why he’s in such a rush to cut it. It’s not even that long- just barely down to his jaw- and besides, he’s got it tied back. He wonders what about it is so important to him that it breaks through the way he’s been drifting like a ghost.

Phil winces, just like the day before, and explains that he was just about to go. Tommy reassures him that it’s fine, but Techno can see the way it claws at Phil. 

Finally, Phil leaves, and Tommy’s face drops from its previous apathy to something… not necessarily _sad,_ but… tired.

He decides, then, that he wants to break it. 

“Tommy.”

"Hmm?” Tommy asks, on the foot of the stairs. Techno is honestly just glad he got a reply.

“Were going hunting,” Techno says bluntly. “Go get ready.”

Tommy stares at him, confused. There’s a moment in which Techno thinks he must not have heard him, but, after a moment, he takes a deep breath and asks, “What?”

“Did I stutter?” Techno retorts. “Meet me downstairs. I gotta get some armor.”

Tommy squints, thinking for a moment, seemingly thrown by the sudden order.

“...Okay.”

He turns around and ascends the stairs, shooting one last look back at Techno before going off to find something.

Techno doesn’t really expect him to grab any gear, considering he doesn't think Tommy had anything much on him when he'd arrived, and he was fairly certain there was nothing in his room yet. There’s an enderchest in the hall, though, so Techno figures he might have something in there, if he has anything at all. Mostly, he just wanted him to grab the snow boots Phil had gotten for him, and maybe- if he was lucky- change out of his old shirt, which was now a functional sleep shirt, but which would not be the best thing to wear armor over, which would chill with the cold and leave his bare skin pressed against freezing metal.

He doesn't have to wait long to find out, though, because Tommy returns in a matter of minutes.

Techno can do nothing but stare..

 _God,_ what has Tommy become?

(He thinks it mostly as a joke, but. Honestly?)

Tommy stands before him, looking confused but considerably more aware than he had for the past few days. Techno notes with approval that he’s donned some of Techno’s clothes, which were much more suitable to the climate. That’s not the problem, though. The problem is his- and Techno doesn’t mean this in a _mean_ way. It’s just an observation- frankly pathetic excuse for gear.

He has nothing but a bow and a stone sword. They’re both beat to hell and back; he wouldn’t be surprised if the bow was literally just a stick with a string tied around it, considering how primitive it looks. The wood is splintering, too, and the string looks like it would snap instantly the second an inkling of pressure was placed upon it. The sword is- well, right off the bat, the sword was _stone._ Which was marginally better than wood, and considerably better than your fist, but was shit compared to literally anything else. Even further, though, it’s not in good condition. It has chips all along both sides of it, and the blade itself looks so dull that Techno has doubts it would even do much more than a mildly painful jab.

The worst part is that he doesn’t have any armor. Not even leather.

It’s not that Tommy doesn’t have good gear- Techno didn’t _expect_ him to, after all- but it’s the fact that, to Tommy, this was sufficient.

“Uhhhhh,” he says. “Alright, yeah. Follow me, I gotta get some stuff.”

Tommy stammers, but does as he’s told, trailing him down into the basement, and then to the sub-basement, where their armor and weapons were stored.

The sword and bow are easy- he’s got enough of those to last him a lifetime. He retrieves a new bow and an amply supplied quiver of arrows and hands them to Tommy without a second thought, who seems confused, but shrugs. Luckily, he has a netherite sword that’ll work just fine- it’s not really in peak condition, the durability worn out just so, but it’s miles better than the other one. Tommy takes both with a nod of gratitude, turning to leave, but Techno isn’t done.

So the weapons were easy, but the armor is a bit trickier. Techno digs through his chest for something that’ll work- he doesn’t have an extra set of netherite, but he knows he’s got an enchanted set of diamond somewhere around here, and as far as he remembers, it’s not _too_ beat up.

He rifles through the various chests lining the room before he emerges, holding the chestplate triumphantly. He happily notes that it’s only _mildly_ dented.

He tosses it to Tommy with a quick “put this on”, and really, he should’ve thought about the repercussions of- first off, launching a somewhat heavy, projectile object at his traumatized brother- but also, expecting him to catch it when he barely ate without someone putting the fork in his hand.

Shockingly, though, Tommy does catch it. It’s not without a violent flinch, and he stumbles back a few steps, peering down at the chestplate with confused, fearful eyes. He holds it so tightly that Techno can see the metal digging into his hands, and yet Tommy stares at it like it’s a ticking time bomb, shaking minutely.

But he doesn’t drop it, so Techno considers that a win.

He turns back to collecting the other pieces of armor from the chest, when Tommy responds. “What?”

He turns his head to see that Tommy still stands, looking lost. “...The armor?” He clarifies. “Put it on.”

Tommy stammers, eyes flitting rapidly from the chestplate to Techno and back again. “I- You- ... _me?”_

Techno honestly doesn’t understand why this was so difficult. It’s not as if _he_ was going to wear it- he’d already donned his netherite- so Tommy was the only one left, even _if_ Techno hadn’t told him explicitly to put it on.

“Uhhhh. Uh huh. That’s why I gave it to _you.”_

Tommy just stares, brows furrowed in bewilderment, like _Techno_ is the one acting irrationally here. “Are you serious?” He asks, and Techno can’t keep the quiet scoff from erupting.

“Wh- yeah, I’m serious,” he says, and Tommy almost looks suspicious, like Techno’s hidden some trap in the boots or something. “Why wouldn’t I be? You could probably be one tapped with a wooden sword right now- I can't go hunting with that.”

It’s meant as a joke, but Tommy’s face doesn’t lighten up. He looks down at the chestplate once more, distressed, and Techno wonders if, maybe, he’s upset about the dents. “...It's only a temporary fix, but it’s better than nothing,” he tries, aiming to placate him.

It doesn’t work. In fact, it does the opposite, because Tommy’s expression suddenly drops from worried to something dark and thunderous.

“I'm not-” he begins, but pauses, pressing his lips together tightly and inhaling deeply through his nose. “You don't have to toy around with me. I don't want it if you're just gonna take it away.”

Tommy’s eyes look clearer than they have in days; and even if it took angering him to make them so sharp, it’s still somewhat relieving to see. On another note, though, Techno’s baffled at the sudden change in tone. First he’s upset about the armor, and now he’s _territorial_ over it?

His voices pipe up, then, insistent on making sure Tommy wears armor. Techno agrees, and their chatter quiets down.

“Jesus, Toms, you can keep it if you want.” Tommy’s face contorts at that, shifting through more emotions than Techno has any hope of counting or identifying. “I just figured you’d want your own set, since that one’s all beat up.”

Tommy’s expression settles on something hesitant. Suspicious. There’s not an iota of trust in the shields he throws up. Even his stance shifts slightly, becoming marginally more defensive.

“....You would really let me keep it?” he asks slowly. Trepidatiously. Like he’s barefoot on a ground covered in glass, and Techno is a starving bloodhound, lying in wait.

Techno breathes. He feels like he’s walking on glass, too- like one move will lead to Tommy running away or shutting down entirely. He doesn’t really know why. It’s just armor, but… he gets the sense that it means more to Tommy than simple _armor._

“ _Yes,_ Tommy,” he settles on, finally. “I’m-...” 

He stops himself, because the words that almost slipped out are fragile. They’re vulnerable. Soft. And Techno doesn’t want to be soft anymore; he’s worked hard to make himself anything _but._

But looking into Tommy’s distrustful eyes, he knows he needs to be soft, then- because he’ll crumble under anything more.

“... I want you to be safe, just in case, you know?” he says, and he can see Tommy’s resolve finally begin to crack. “I don’t… we shouldn’t need it, because we’ll be back before dark. But. I want you protected in the case that we do run into something.”

 _In case we run into Dream_ is what he’s thinking, but he knows saying that would hurt a lot more than it would help.

Tommy’s hotwire shoulders begin to droop, then, and his iron grip on the armor loosens just slightly, leaving deep, white grooves. His eyes lock with Techno’s, and his face shifts, then.

If Techno didn’t know any better, he’d say the look he sees in Tommy is trust.

“Thank you,” he whispers, words lighter than air. They disappear into the stone walls, but they resound in Techno’s ears for a few seconds more.

“Yeah,” he replies. “No problem.”

Tommy dons the armor, finally, and Techno’s final touch was to retrieve a wool lined cloak from his closet, which he draped around Tommy’s shoulders. It was blue, like his, and Techno would’ve made fun of the way he looked like a knock off version of himself if it didn’t make his throat a little bit tight.

(Oh, what nine year old Tommy would say now, if he knew that in seven years, he’d ride with Techno on a hunting trip. That he’d wear his cloaks, and ride his horses. Oh, how he would smile, cheeks almost as red as the makeshift cape he’d made from a stray curtain in the closet. Oh, how he would smile, eyes as warm as the cherry tree wood of the play sword Phil had made him. Oh, how he would smile- until he found out that the cape and sword which he’d based his own off of would be what took his big brother and his father away from him. Oh, how he would smile- because Techno would rather die than tell him.)

Techno notices with confusion that Tommy already seemed freer. Lighter. His eyes are clear, and his gait is purposeful, and his hands don’t shake. (And if they do, sometimes, it’s not nearly as noticeable.)

If Techno had known giving Tommy armor and a cloak would give him such clarity, he would have done it days ago.

They waste no time, then, mounting their horses. Techno considers letting Tommy ride Carl, and then he decides that there is a limit to his kindness, and that was it, so Tommy rides Percy instead while Techno rides Carl, his beloved.

It’s funny, Techno notes, how the longer they go, the looser Tommy seems to get. The louder. The ruder, too, but in that way that Tommy’s always been rude. The kind of rudeness that almost makes you feel grateful for it, because Tommy’s not rude like that when doesn’t feel safe.

 _Loser,_ Tommy mutters, when he shoots the rabbit that Techno had missed seconds earlier. Techno’s eyes widen, and something clicks into place in his chest at the lightness he sees in Tommy.

 _Watch me, bitch boy,_ Tommy says, when Techno tells him not to go after the sheep he’d been pursuing when it runs into the treeline. The corners of his lips tick up despite the way he tries to keep them still.

(Tommy returns a few minutes later, dejected and sheepless. _Fuck off, asshole,_ he says when Techno laughs at him and says _I told you so. Idiot. Oh my god, owned by a sheep, that’s so embarrassing for you, Tommy_. But he smiles, too, and it’s genuine and free of the weight that had dragged him down. Techno’s chest is warm, despite the way Tommy’s cheeks flush with the cold. His probably do, too.)

As the sun begins to near the horizon and Techno decides they should head back, the sky begins to release millions of tiny white flakes.

Tommy laughs, and there’s something innocent and heart wrenching in the way he tries to catch the snow on his tongue. _I caught one, Techno! I caught one!_

It’s funny, Techno thinks, how so much has changed. And yet it’s no different than the first time it’d snowed on the farm since Tommy arrived. He’d still been nervous around them. He’d still been stashing nonperishable food behind the clothes in his drawers and stumbling at the unusual weight of shoes on his feet. But the way he’d stuck his tongue out, lunging for falling snowflakes… it’s the same, even now, years and years later.

He’d always been so desperate to catch a piece of the sky for himself.

By the time they arrive back at the house, Tommy’s little ponytail has mostly fallen out, strands framing his face in a wild mess. It’s dripping with water and snowflakes having yet to melt, and he knows if Phil saw, he’d probably scold him for letting him get wet and cold or whatever, but the glee on Tommy’s face convinces him he doesn’t give a shit.

(Besides, he’d told him to put his hood up. Not his fault Tommy didn’t listen.)

They deposit their quarry in the ice chest Phil had carved out behind the house, and retreat inside after securing the horses.

Immediately upon entering the house, Em scrambles to greet them. Techno briefly acknowledges that Phil must not have arrived home yet, for her to be this excited. Techno holds out his hands for pats, but Tommy slides to his knees, arms open, and Em runs straight to him without a second glance to Techno. She pants and gives one of her beautiful dog grins, tail wagging like crazy as Tommy scratches her sides, to which Tommy returns one just as big.

“God, why does she like you better than she likes me?” Techno asks, jokingly pressing a hand to his forehead in distress.

“Because I’m better than you?” Tommy scoffs. “Idiot.”

Techno brushes him off with a simple “you are despicable”, and heads down to the weapons room. He hears Tommy follow after him a moment later as he begins to take his armour off.

There’s a momentary silence as he finishes mounting his armor on the stand. He sees Tommy take his helmet off, but after that, Tommy seems to simply hold it in both hands, staring into the aquamarine metal.

Tommy takes a breath, and with that breath, Techno can tell that the words coming out of his mouth are not words he’ll enjoy.

Really, he should’ve trusted his gut.

★★★★★

Tommy holds the cool helmet in his hands, and he looks at his reflection.

He barely recognizes himself. The feeling of it in his hands is already unfamiliar- it’s been so long since he’s had access to armor like that. Even when he had iron, it was never for long- and he _certainly_ never got far enough to enchant it.

As he stares into it, his brain starts to reel and spin with disbelief.

 _Are you sure?_ Something in head asks. _Are you sure you’re allowed to keep it? What if he was joking? What if he was, and he gets mad that you thought it was yours? What if he just wanted it to hurt worse when he destroyed it? You shouldn’t feel so happy. Not yet. You need to make sure, before he destroys something worse than the armor._

 _You’re right,_ he thinks. _God, of course you’re right._

So he takes a deep breath.

“Are.... Are you sure I'm allowed to keep this?” he asks, looking up at Techno. His voice is quiet, hesitant, then, and though Techno only has a few inches on him, he suddenly seems so much bigger than he is.

Techno stares, and the longer he stays silent, the creeping anxiety in Tommy’s gut spreads further and further. God, he was wrong, he was _wrong,_ it was all a _joke._

The only thing left to do now was damage control. Maybe, if he was lucky, if- if he helped, he wouldn’t be as pissed _._ “I... I can go get TNT, and I have- I have some flint and steel with me, if you want to-”

“Tommy, what happened in the nether? What did Dream _do_ to you?”

Every inch of the compliance he had evaporates within a millisecond.

His expression shutters, mouth clicking shut. The change is instant as his entire mind enters defense mode. _Keep him out, don’t let him in,_ chants the voice in the back of his head. He goes from apologetic and tentative to a hot livewire, sparking. 

He doesn’t say anything, for a moment. 

“I don’t see why that matters,” Tommy says through gritted teeth. “I’m not there anymore.”

Techno jerks back, seemingly taken aback. “Tommy, of course it matters. You’re obviously-”

“Obviously _what,_ Techno?” Tommy meets his eyes, and he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Techno regards him with a neutral expression, and for some reason, he suddenly wants to knock it off. Replace it with anger or hurt or _something_.

There’s fire in his throat, suddenly, and he wants to spit it out.

“Just drop it, okay? It’s none of your business-”

Techno’s neutrality gives, then, and though he doesn’t look _angry_ yet, Tommy thinks he’s found some leeway. He proves himself right when Techno cuts him off.

“I think it _is_ my business, actually, considering you’re taking refuge in _my house._ I don’t think it’s a crime, to want to know what the hell happened that would leave you half dead on my couch.”

Tommy clenches his teeth- hard, and then harder, and then so hard that he begins to fear they’ll shatter.

It just scrapes at something in him, something on the inside of his lungs, the way Techno acted like he cared so much. He acted like he cared _so much,_ and the contrast is so stark between that and how he’d acted a year ago. A month ago. Fuck, a _week_ ago he hadn’t given a shit whether or not Dream had run him through with a sword. He wouldn’t have given a second thought if Tommy had conveniently tripped off a cliffside. He probably wouldn’t have even noticed if Tommy had woken up just a second too late in the water.

He wouldn’t have cared if Phil had just _let Tommy fall._

"Before, you didn't even care enough to check on me. What's different now?" 

Techno hesitates. He blinks, rapidly, and shifts uncomfortably. _Good,_ thinks Tommy, cruel and maybe a little bit sadistic. _Let him writhe._

"....What are you talking about-"

"You never visited me," Tommy spits, and the words are acidic. He can almost hear them hiss as they land on Techno’s skin.

Techno scoffs, gaze shifting around the room as if he can’t stand to hold eye contact with him. "Well, I was under the impression that you didn’t _want_ me to."

Tommy’s jaw drops. “What the hell do you _mean,_ I didn’t _want_ you to? I was completely alone! I needed-... _somebody_ , and- and no one was there.” His voice goes raw on the last words, and he swallows thickly, shoving down the ache that’s tainted every inch of him. “Hell, _Dream_ was there for me more than anybody else-"

Techno gapes, and Tommy gets a spark of satisfaction from the way anger flickers, embers just barely glowing in his maroon eyes. "You never asked!"

 _Because that went so well last time,_ he thinks, but doesn’t say.

And then, he thinks, _fuck_ this.

He’s tired of being sad. He wants to be _angry._ He throws his hands up, because really, he’s done trying to be _mature._ He’s done shutting up, and he’s done keeping himself in check.

He just wants to _speak_ , for once in his life, and not worry about getting _killed_ for it.

And who knows? Techno still might. But he’s done letting that possibility stop him.

So he decides, then, to blow on those embers of rage. He’ll stoke it, and he’ll gladly take the burns if it means he gets to feel _alive._

"I never asked because the last time I asked you for help you killed my best friend and destroyed my fucking country!"

So Tommy says what he means, for the first time in a long time.

And _God,_ do Techno’s embers ignite.

"You're the one who never contacted me until you _needed_ something from me!” Techno snaps, and some wound Tommy had long buried tears open. It weeps old blood, and the pain of it is so raw that, for a moment, he forgets how to breathe.

But then he remembers, and the words tear out of him like he’d been exorcised of them.

“ _You’re_ the one who fucking left in the first place!” he says, and god, the words _hurt._ They drag their claws up his throat as they’re spoken, leaving him with blood trickling down his throat. The taste of words made out of ash and ember are not pleasant, and yet he yearns to taste more.

Techno’s seems to freeze, staring at him with unguarded eyes that gleam with something like pity and something like pain. Tommy revels in the silence; the thickness of it, the way it lays heavy on his skin.

Techno takes a deep breath, and when he speaks, it’s almost calm. _Almost._ He can hear the undertones of instability, and unsteadiness, and he can see the way his fists clench. "I- I had goals, Tommy,” he begins. _“Dreams._ I didn't want to spend the rest of my life on that farm-"

"So you had to take Phil with you, too? You _had_ to leave me and Wil alone? What, couldn’t you have _visited_ ? Even _once_?"

He knows he could’ve. He knows, because Phil would visit, every once in a while, and Phil went where Techno did. Every one of Phil’s visits were bittersweet; sweet, because no matter how much he tried not to, Tommy always missed him like he would a missing limb. Just being in Phil’s presence after he’d been gone for so long was like coming inside from a snowstorm.

But it was bitter, too, because it reminded him, every time, that he and Wilbur had been second choice. It always reminded him that Techno had the chance to visit and he _chose_ not to. 

He’s reminded, then, of the only time Techno had returned to visit. He remembers the tears in Wilbur’s eyes when he’d told him to pack his clothes. _We’re leaving,_ he’d said. _Just you and me. We’re gonna go somewhere new. It’ll be wonderful, Toms- just you wait._

Sue him, but to him, it didn’t count. It had already been too late.

"Tommy, I-"

"No!” He buts in, and Techno twitches at his harsh tone, jaw snapping shut. He thinks, finally, he understands why Wilbur had been so desperate to get out. He thinks he understands the way his skin must have rubbed raw with the emptiness of it all, and the sting that accompanied every word they spoke upon return. “ _No_ . You were always so _selfish_. You never bothered to think about what happened to the people you stepped over without a thought, just because you wanted to fight. You wanted to be the _best_ at fucking fighting, and god, Techno, you _were!_ You were the best in the whole world.”

He trusts that Techno will pick up that he doesn’t mean that in terms of dueling alone.

“You beat Dream, and you _still_ didn’t care."

Getting it all out felt something like the way throwing up did- it hurt, and it left his throat burning, but there was some modicum of relief in it. It must be something to do with the way the words rolled in his mouth the way nausea rolled in his stomach, begging him to get it out, because they weren’t meant to be there.

Techno pins his eyes with his own, and they’re cold. The maroon color and the unforgiving harshness of the way they bore into him reminds him of netherrack. His arms are crossed, and he stands stiffly, his face stony and closed off.

All it does is make Tommy want to crack him even more.

So he digs deeper. Fans the ever-stubborn embers even faster. He hits harder in all the places he knows _hurt._

"You’ve always been so fucking arrogant,” he says, and he laughs. Just a little bit. Just enough so that the words shake with it- just enough to make him wonder if he’s laughing, or if he’s beginning to cry. “That hasn't changed. Always thought you were so much better than the rest of us, just because you could destroy any one of us if we did something you didn't like. You always preach about your anarchy, but- but you just do what _you want_ , no matter how many lives it ruins! It's like you think you're the only one who gets to decide what's right. Nobody can go against you, because you don't even _consider_ that it might be more than just a government- if it doesn't align with your beliefs, then it _must_ be wrong. You think you have the right to play god, and you _don't!_ Nobody does!” His brows quirk inwards, and his face drops from cruel anger to something hopeless and lost. His eyes flick back and forth between Techno’s eyes, and he searches for something in them which he may have missed before. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he knows he doesn’t find it.

“You don’t care about what other people feel,” he continues, and his hands ball into tight fists of their own volition. “Do you know how many people live in L’manberg? How many people depend on it to keep them safe? You didn’t give a shit if any of them got hurt. You just did what you wanted, even though you were the only one who wanted it, because you knew none of us could stop you.”

Techno glowers at him, and Tommy notes with pride that his mask seems to be slipping. Just slightly. Just enough so that the corners of his lips tick down, and his brows twitch, just slightly.

“That doesn't sound like anarchy to me, Techno,” Tommy admits, and the corners of his lips curl up like an aggressive dog.

“That sounds like tyranny. You’re a fucking _tyrant_.”

There’s a striking moment of breathlessness, then, and for the first time since Techno asked him that question- _that question he had no right to ask and no right to know the answer to-_ Techno actually looks _upset._

His breath shakes on the inhale, and his eyes are just the slightest bit shiny. Not with tears, no- in all the nine years he’d known Techno, he’d never once seen him cry, and he’s sure that won’t ever change- but with _shock._ Like he never expected Tommy to go that far.

And really, Tommy didn’t, either.

There’s some part of him that’s concaved, in that moment- something gaping and empty with the void of failed expectations.

He’d expected it to thrill him.

He’d thought that Techno’s display of emotion would fuel his fire.

He’d thought hurting him would make him _happy,_ or- or at the very least, he’d hoped it would soothe the festering wounds he still harbored from the withers. From the festival. From Techno leaving.

Instead, it leaves him feeling raw and empty.

(Instead, he suddenly wants to take it all back. Because deep in his gut, lashing out at Techno was just a desperate attempt to distract himself from every age old bruise he still felt.

He doesn’t want to acknowledge that he’d only ever wanted Techno to come home.)

They stare at each other, and it’s like they’re connected by a thread; it’s tied through their skin, and as Techno’s eyes meet his own like arrows to a target, that thread is pulled taut.

Either the thread will snap, or it will cut through them.

It’s only a question of who has weaker skin.

"I wasn’t the only one who wanted that.”

The words resound in his head, repeating themselves over and over again, and still, he doesn’t understand them.

"What?"

Techno inhales deeply, fingers twitching. "You're forgetting that Wilbur blew up L’manberg before I ever did."

Tommy’s brows furrow, and something hot and defensive builds in his chest at the name. "Wilbur was out of his mind-"

"So?” Techno says, and _finally,_ he starts to fight back. “It was what he wanted.”

 _It’ll be wonderful, Toms,_ Wilbur’s voice echoes in his head. _Just you wait._

Tommy’s hackles raise, and he snarls, “You have no _idea_ what Wilbur wanted-”

“All I did was help him, because he was the only one who saw me as an ally, and not a _weapon,”_ Techno hisses, and Tommy can tell that the words are dark and infested with time. These words are not new, and they’ve aged like a disease.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" He asks, and Techno’s eyes go sharp.

"You said it yourself!” He sways forward, and Tommy takes a subconscious step back. Techno’s hair swings in its braids, and his bangs have started to fray, messy and out of place. “I’m a fighter. I’m nothing but _the blade_ to you. You _used_ me in your war, and-"

Indignation speaks for him, and his hands fly up as he protests, "I didn’t use you! I asked you for _help_ -"

"And I gave it to you!”

Disbelief floods Tommy’s veins.

“I gave you my help. I did what you guys asked, and I didn't ask for anything in return, and _you_ got pissed when I did what I thought was best.” He scoffs, and Tommy’s eyes widen when he sees the tips of pearly white tusks emerge between his lips. “You got pissed when I did what I said I was going to from the very beginning."

"Oh, yeah. _My bad,”_ Tommy spits, spite saturating every syllable. “Sorry for thinking that, maybe, there was a sliver of a chance that you would put us-...” His breath catches, and he clears his throat, mouth suddenly dry. “...That you would care more about me than you cared about the anarchy of a country that you didn’t even _live_ in. It was stupid of me, really. _Really_."

Techno presses his lips together, and Tommy can’t identify the emotion on his face.

"I thought, maybe, you'd see that things like that never end well. And they never will. And they _didn’t_ ,” he says, and Tommy hates the way the words make him think of Tubbo.

“You of all people should see that, now."

He hates that he kind of does.

But it’s not like Techno was any better.

"The _day_ I got exiled, you came to _taunt_ me. You laughed at me,” Tommy recalls, and he gives a wry, scratchy chuckle. “Said it was _funny_. You literally just came to kick me while I was down and spit your anarchist, anti-government bullshit-"

"What, and you're gonna tell me I was wrong?” Techno raises his voice, then, and against all reason, it makes Tommy’s heart stutter with panic, just a bit. “You’re gonna tell me that the moment you tried to implement government in L'manberg wasn't the moment everything went to shit? You're going to tell me that _government_ isn't what got you exiled in the first place?"

"It- it wasn't government, it was _Dream_ -"

"No it wasn't.” It’s blunt, and straightforward, and it holds no mercy. Techno’s face is grim and determined, and something about it makes him feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. “Dream might have been the catalyst, but... your government is the reason Tubbo chose the country you built together over you."

Suddenly, the magnifying glass catches the rays of the sun, and he begins to burn.

He stammers, heart thudding. It’s not something he can bear to think about. "He- he didn't- I-"

"Yes, he did! Look at what it did to him!” Techno gestures wildly with his hands, eyes wide and chest heaving from the weight of his breath. His tusks are even longer, now, protruding from his jaw about half an inch. It’s been a long time since Tommy’s seen them that long. “I remember when that kid would rather lose a leg than separate from you for more than ten minutes.” He pauses, hesitating. “I remember when you would do the same.”

He looks at Tommy like he can see straight through him. Like he knows every piece of joy and fear and pain Tommy’s ever kept close to his chest.

“Now look at you."

The way he says it isn’t angry. 

It just sounds sad.

They’re both quiet, then, and Tommy thinks neither of them know what to say. He feels drained, like his anger has taken more out of him than he had to give. Techno looks much the same as he swallows, thickly, and his body slowly drops from it’s tensed, wound up state. His tusks finally begin to retract, sliding gradually back.

It feels like a stalemate.

“You know, it’s kinda funny how much history repeats itself, don't you think?” Tommy’s voice is hushed, and as he speaks, the tone of his words is resigned and desolate. “I always thought it was that you cared so much about fighting, that you were so caught up with dueling that you forgot about us. That you forgot there were other people who loved you besides Phil. But I think… I _feel,_ now, like that was never it.”

He takes a deep breath, and somehow, it doesn’t feel like enough for the words he wants to say. His voice is even and apathetic, because he knows there’s probably no going back from what he’s already said. Techno will make him leave- understandably, really- or maybe he’ll turn him in to Dream. He doesn’t know. But he knows there’s nothing he can do that will remedy what either of them have done, so there’s no point in not saying what he thinks while he still has the chance.

“I think, maybe, you never cared about us at all. You let Wil go down that path, and you didn’t try to stop him. You called it _caring,_ like you didn’t see where that path was heading. But you're not stupid. I know you were smart enough to see where it would end. You let him destroy himself, and you left, knowing that I had lost all of you. The only person I had was Tubbo, and then I lost him, too, and I was completely alone.” He sighs, and casts his gaze down to his hands, which are still for the first time in days. ‘I had nobody, and you still didn’t care.”

"I did. You just didn't like the way I did it." Tommy thinks, briefly, that nobody would like being ridiculed and laughed at in their misery, but to say it would be to beat a dead horse. "We both know you wouldn't have wanted me there, even if I had come to see you."

He smiles, then, aching. He remembers every day he’d spent alone, talking to himself just to hear someone speak. He remembers the monotony of it, and all the hours he couldn’t remember because his mind couldn’t handle the solitude. He remembers every single night where he’d lay, shivering in his bed, wishing that somebody- _anybody-_ would come to see him, so he wouldn’t be alone anymore.

He always was, of course.

"I would have,” He says, and misses the slicker of surprise on Techno’s face. "I did." He looks up, finally, and locks onto Techno’s eyes. "You would have been better than nobody."

"I thought you said you had your best friend, _Dream_. That's not nobody, Tommy."

Tommy gawks.

Suddenly, it’s like he’s disconnected from his body; like he’s been thrown miles into the air, and he’s freefalling.

He can’t breathe. He feels like he’s got a vice around his windpipe and it grows ever tighter with each breath he tries to take. The words are cruel, and sharp, and _brutal,_ and he sees the moment Techno processes his own words and something like regret contorts his features. The blood drains from his face, leaving him pale and pallid, and he opens his mouth to say something else, but Tommy beats him to the punch.

"Fuck you," Tommy spits. "Fuck you, Technoblade."

“Tommy-” Techno tries, but Tommy doesn’t stick around to hear it.

His heart beats hard as he runs up out of the basement and into the living room. He ignores Phil, who calls after him, confused, and he storms up to the attic in a maelstrom of ash and bone.

He slams the door, but he doesn’t mean to. Really, he doesn’t, it’s just that everything feels like it’s going so _fast,_ and Tommy can’t handle it. He’s pissed off, and upset, and he wouldn’t admit it but he regrets half the things he said, and he just wants everything to _slow down._

Snow falls in a torrent outside his window, so thick that he can barely see the treeline. It surprises him, sometimes, how snow can be so gentle and peaceful, and yet it can be so brutal.

He sits on his bed- _his bed-_ and undoes the straps on his chestplate, which he never got the chance to take off. The metal feels like it burns, somehow, because he still doesn’t know why Techno would give it to him when he shouldn’t _care._

 _He doesn’t,_ snarls a voice in his head. _He doesn’t care. He hasn’t for years. It’s all a ruse. He’ll drag you out of this house by your hair if he must, and you have to be ready for that._

And it’s right. God, it’s _right,_ and Tommy doesn’t know what he’ll do.

He’ll die, surely. One way or another. From the elements, maybe- frozen in the snow or starving. Or he’ll get torn to pieces by mobs. Or, maybe… maybe Dream will find him.

No matter what it is, he finds he’s not as stressed about it as he should be.

He throws the chestplate to the floor, and the leggings follow soon after. The metal clangs together noisily, and he flinches. The diamond boots go by his bed, followed by the fur lined boots Phil had brought him.

His head pounds, and he changes out of Techno’s button up into his old shirt. The material is soft and familiar, and he rubs the hem in between his thumb and forefinger for a moment. It’s soothing, for some reason, despite the faint red stain that he chooses to ignore.

He sits on his bed. The wind whips outside, and the low rumble of thunder can be heard from the sky. It makes his heart jump, just a little bit, and he remembers, suddenly, the way he used to tremble when it would storm in his old room on the farm.

He hadn’t even realized that thunder could _happen_ in the snow.

His lanterns flicker on his bedside tables, orange shadows jumping on his walls, and he considers turning them off. But he doesn’t want to be in the dark, so he leaves them. He’s suddenly glad that they’re redstone lanterns, as he doesn’t have to worry about burning the house down.

An added bonus is the slight heat they provide. It’s cold, in the attic. Colder than the rest of the house, probably because it was higher, and less insulated. He can’t suppress a shiver, and he burrows under the blankets on his bed.

The one on the bottom- the blue one that he’d been using since he’d gotten there- is soft and warm, and he tucks his nose under it, clutching a handful in his fist.

He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t close his eyes. He finds himself tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable. The way he sinks into the mattress is foreign and strange, so unlike the measly one he’d had in Logsteadshire, which was little more than a wooden plank with a thin cushion, or even the one in L’manberg, which had always been on the stiff side.

Strangely, he finds that some part of him believes that sleeping on the floor would be a better option.

He almost indulges it, too, but decides against it when he realizes that that would probably be the last time he ever slept on it. It was only the second night which he’d had his own bed- _his own room-_ and most definitely his last, so he figures he should enjoy it while he can.

So he tosses and turns on the too comfortable bed, listening to the howling wind, and he stares into the dark wooden walls, trying his best to shove down the festering regret that sits on the back of his tongue.

He tries in vain to shove down the simmering urge to _run,_ the one that says if he left before Techno made him, he wouldn't get the chance to kick him on the way out. (He _tries,_ and he can't say it works. Because, well- it isn't wrong.)

He tries, desperately, to ignore the sound of Techno’s voice echoing in his skull.

_That’s not nobody, Tommy. That’s not nobody._

_You’re right,_ Tommy thinks. _He’s worse._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy folksssssss  
> it's been a second lmao. sorry this took so freaking long, ive been super busy with school and whatnot.  
> but anyways!! a few things. One. the time period of the dsmp is so wild with the clothes so ive decided to just do whatever which is why they have a stove- if they have furnaces they can probably make stoves right  
> second. i struggled with the characterization in the argument SO MUCH like i. im so worried that its all out of character, so please, let me know if anything sounds severely out of character- in the whole chapter, not just the argument. also my sleep schedule is so wrecked so most of this was written at like 4 am, so generally call me out on things that could be better  
> three! the chapter count says three now, because I was gonna do it all in this one, and then i realized about half way through that it was gonna be way longer than anticipated, so i decided to split it lol  
> four- DNWICNIEVEICHEIVHE yall. yall are so kind to me in the comments. i literally cant comprehend it. you guys make me so happy, i cant even tell you. im so grateful for every single person who has read this or left kudos or commented, and i would die for any one of you. thank you.  
> lastly, ive been listening to three things on repeat lately; Turning Tables by Adele, Oregon by Wabie, and it's all futile! it's all pointless! by our very own wibler foot. and i gotta say. turning tables fits tommy in exile so much it hurts. like, look me dead in the eyes and tell me "i've braved a hundred storms to leave you" is not STRIKINGLY fitting  
> anyways yeah thats all!! this is a long ass note but i love you guys bye
> 
> (also. canon has hurt me so much. so ive decided to ignore it through this fic. i stan awesamdude thanks)


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